The private lounge on the top floor of the Aurora Hotel was silent.
Too silent.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering city below, but even the traffic noise seemed distant at this height. The world moved on outside.
Inside, time felt suspended.
Elena stood near the glass, arms wrapped around herself. The reflection staring back at her looked composed.
She wasn't.
Ethan had fallen asleep earlier, exhausted from the emotional chaos. Mira had reluctantly taken him home after Elena insisted this conversation had to happen alone.
Now there were no buffers.
No witnesses.
Only the truth.
The door opened without a knock.
Adrian stepped inside as if the space already belonged to him.
Measured steps. Controlled breathing. Impeccable posture.
He closed the door gently.
The soft click reverberated louder than it should have.
"Elena," he said, tone even, almost indifferent.
"How long were you planning to hide him?"
She didn't respond immediately.
Instead, she turned slowly, giving him her full attention.
"I wasn't hiding anyone."
His gaze hardened. "You left without a word."
"You signed the divorce," she corrected quietly.
A muscle in his jaw ticked.
"That child is three," he continued, each word deliberate.
"Yes."
"And we separated three years ago."
She didn't flinch.
"Is he mine?"
The question cut straight through the air.
No hesitation. No softness.
Elena felt something inside her tighten painfully.
"You don't get to interrogate me," she said, voice steady despite the storm in her chest.
Adrian took a step forward.
"Answer me."
"You forfeited that right the moment you told me to disappear."
His expression darkened. "If he is my son—"
"If?" Her voice sharpened. "Do you think so little of me?"
"I don't know what to believe."
"That's convenient."
He exhaled sharply, patience thinning.
"You expect me to ignore the timing?"
"I expect you to remember who I was to you."
The words lingered.
He didn't reply.
Because memory was inconvenient.
She laughed softly, though there was no warmth in it.
"You always trusted documents more than people."
His eyes flashed. "There was evidence."
"Manufactured evidence," she corrected.
"But you never asked for my side."
He paused.
Not because he agreed.
Because he remembered.
Three years ago. Photographs. Accusations. Silence.
His silence.
"This isn't about that," he said finally.
"It is exactly about that."
Her composure cracked just slightly.
"You decided I was guilty without listening."
He inhaled slowly, regaining his usual control.
"We are discussing the child."
"Yes," she replied.
"The child you're questioning as if I would lie about something like this."
Her hand trembled before she could stop it.
The slap came unexpectedly.
Sharp.
Clean.
It echoed against the marble and glass.
Adrian's head tilted with the force.
He didn't react.
Didn't retaliate.
He simply straightened and looked at her again.
"You don't question my integrity," she whispered, breathing unevenly.
"Not after destroying it once."
Silence pressed in from all sides.
Then she spoke.
"Yes."
The word felt heavier than anything she had ever said.
"Yes. He's yours."
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Adrian didn't blink.
Didn't move.
The information settled over him like weight.
His son.
A child carrying his blood had existed for three years without him knowing.
Without him being there.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, but the sharpness was gone.
"You made it clear I was not welcome in your life."
He absorbed that.
And this time, he couldn't deflect it.
"I need proof," he said after a long pause.
She didn't hesitate.
From her bag, she retrieved a sealed envelope.
"I anticipated that."
She placed it on the table between them.
"I ran the test when he was one."
His gaze flicked to her. "You already verified?"
"I knew you would question me."
Not because she doubted herself.
Because she knew him.
He opened the envelope carefully.
The document inside was sterile. Precise. Undeniable.
Probability of paternity: 99.9%.
Numbers never lied.
His fingers tightened slightly on the paper.
Three years.
He folded the sheet with deliberate care.
Set it aside.
His eyes drifted toward the sofa where Ethan had slept earlier, remembering the small face, the curious eyes.
His son.
The resemblance he had dismissed earlier now replayed in his mind with uncomfortable clarity.
"Does he know about me?" he asked.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I refuse to let him feel rejected."
The statement struck deeper than she intended.
Adrian did not argue.
Instead, he considered.
Recognition meant responsibility.
Responsibility meant involvement.
"I want him acknowledged legally," he said.
Her expression chilled. "As your heir?"
"He is my heir."
"There it is," she murmured.
"It's not about status," he said firmly.
"It's about protection."
"From what?"
"From anyone who questions his legitimacy."
Her eyes searched his face.
"You're thinking about your board."
"I'm thinking about his future."
She crossed her arms.
"You cannot erase three years with a signature."
"No," he agreed quietly.
"But I can secure what comes next."
A long pause stretched between them.
Then he said it.
"Marry me again."
The proposal hung in the air like something unreal.
Elena stared at him.
"You're unbelievable."
"One year," he continued.
"A contractual arrangement. Clear terms."
She almost laughed.
"You want to solve this with paperwork."
"It's the most efficient way."
"This is not a merger."
His jaw tightened.
"I will ensure his inheritance, education and security. No one will question him."
"My son is not a corporate project."
"He is my responsibility."
"You signed away that responsibility."
For a moment, something unguarded flickered in his eyes.
Regret.
It disappeared quickly.
"Then let me reclaim it."
The words were quieter now.
More personal.
She hesitated despite herself.
He stepped closer, but this time not aggressively.
"Tell me what you want," he said.
The question surprised her.
Because he wasn't commanding.
He was asking.
"You can't repair what you broke," she replied softly.
"Maybe not."
His gaze shifted toward the door, as if seeing beyond it—beyond this moment.
"But I can prevent further damage."
She held his eyes.
Searching for arrogance.
Finding something else instead.
Determination.
Fear.
Possibly even remorse.
"Prepare the contract," he said finally.
Not cold.
Not cruel.
Decisive.
And this time—
It wasn't about pride.
It was about claiming what he had unknowingly lost.
And refusing to lose it again.