Chapter 18

Lauren

I had just gotten Abigail into the car when the weight of what she’d said hit me. The moment I saw Alexander’s face, something inside me snapped. I knew I’d have to answer questions, navigate the tension, and shield my daughter from the chaos unraveling around us.

I mumbled a lame excuse about Abigail being upset as I ushered her away before anyone could respond.

“Abigail, honey, what’s wrong? How was your friend?” Daphne asked the moment we stepped into the house. Her sharp eyes caught the shift in the air.

Abigail didn’t answer, her little face a mix of confusion and sadness as she shuffled toward the table where Daphne had laid out the birthday dinner.

Daphne scooped her up immediately, her warm arms offering comfort I couldn’t give. I tried to suppress the storm brewing inside me, but it was getting harder to hide. Everything was falling apart, and I felt like the only one trying to hold it together.

“Lauren, what happened?” Daphne asked softly, concern in her eyes—along with something that felt like pity.

I shook my head, unwilling to say it out loud. I had to protect Abigail from the truth, at least for now. She didn’t need to understand the pain or betrayal. But Daphne wasn’t letting it go.

“Abigail,” I muttered, crouching to meet her eyes. “Do you… know?”

“What are you talking about?” Daphne started but stopped when Abigail blinked up at me with innocent confusion.

“What?” Abigail asked, tilting her head.

My heart twisted painfully. Abigail was too young to understand. How could she know the truth? That Alexander—her father—was back in the picture.

But the realization clawed its way to the surface. Abigail wasn’t just mine; she was his too. Alexander’s daughter. A truth I had buried beneath layers of grief and denial.

That night, after putting Abigail to bed, Daphne and I sat on the couch. I sank into the plush cushions, exhaustion pressing down on me.

“I owe you an apology,” Daphne began. “If I’d known she’d see Owen and Alexander—”

“It’s not your fault,” I interrupted, waving her off.

“Daphne, I—” The words caught in my throat, but I pushed forward, explaining everything. Her face grew paler with every word.

“Owen’s birthday is the same day as Abigail’s?” She scoffed in disbelief. “What’s next, they start finishing each other’s sentences? That’s way too much of a coincidence.”

I froze, my stomach twisting into knots. “Yeah, well,” I said, my voice shaky as I tried to keep my emotions in check. “When Alexander and I divorced, Sophia must have already been pregnant.”

The bitterness clung to every word, and I could feel the sting of old wounds reopening. “And after Alexander cruelly killed my child, he went on to happily visit Sophia’s child.”

Daphne’s eyes widened. “No, no, that’s not what I mean. What if the child you lost—like Abigail—just… survived?”

“You mean… Owen?” I whispered, barely able to speak.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I’d spent sleepless nights searching, hoping that maybe my second hadn’t died. Liam and I had chased every lead, only to come up empty.

Could Owen really be the child I thought I’d lost?

It seemed impossible, but I couldn’t ignore it. There was something about him—his eyes, his smile—that reminded me so much of myself. Of Alexander.

I didn’t want to believe it, but the ache in my heart grew every time I looked at him. Could it be true?

The hospital was eerily quiet, the hum of machines and distant murmurs barely cutting through the weight on my chest. Owen sat at the desk, his small frame hunched over the keyboard, fingers clumsily tapping. The screen’s glow lit up his furrowed brow and the determined set of his lips.

Normally, I’d lean in with a lighthearted comment to coax a smile out of him. But today, I couldn’t. My mind was a battlefield, torn between the past I thought I’d buried and a future that felt more uncertain than ever.

Owen’s small, trembling voice broke the silence. “I’m sorry. Don’t blame Abigail.”

His words left like the small hand on my sleeve. This tiny boy, already trying to shoulder blame he didn’t deserve, carried a weight no child should bear. My heart ached for him.

Taking a steadying breath, I leaned forward. “Owen, this isn’t your fault. None of it. Do you understand?”

He looked up, eyes wide with a vulnerability that twisted something deep inside me. “Okay,” he whispered, though the word lacked conviction.

I offered a small smile, trying to ease the tension. “Did you have a good birthday?”

He nodded, his lips curving into a hesitant smile. “It was fun. Abigail said it was the best day ever.”

His words brought a flicker of warmth, but as I looked at him, the flicker was overshadowed by something else—recognition. There was something in the way he tilted his head, the way his eyes lit up when he spoke. It wasn’t just the quirks. It was his face, his expressions, the uncanny resemblance that made my stomach twist.

I reached out without thinking, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “I’m glad,” I said softly, my fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. He didn’t seem to notice when I gently tuck the stand into my book.

I had to know for sure. If Owen was really my son—if he had somehow survived—then everything would change.

The day blurred after that. Paperwork, meetings, preparations for the nw foundation—it all passed in a haze. My body went through the motions, but my mind was elsewhere, stuck on a loop of what-ifs and maybes. If Owen was my son—if he was the child I had mourned and buried in my heart—what would that mean?

By the time I prepped to leave the hospital, the world outside the windows was shrouded in darkness, the chill of the night biting through the glass. My legs ached, my head throbbed, and all I wanted was to collapse into bed and let the weight of the day slip away.

I stepped into the elevator, letting the doors slide shut behind me with a soft hiss. The space was quiet, the kind of silence that invited exhaustion to settle deeper into my bones. I leaned against the wall, my eyes closed, and let out a slow breath.

And then I felt it—a presence.

I opened my eyes, and my heart stuttered in my chest.

Alexander.

He stood a few feet away, his tall frame taking up more space than it should have, his dark eyes locked on mine with a mixture of surprise and something I couldn’t quite name. The air in the elevator shifted, growing heavy with unspoken words and unresolved tension.

How had I not noticed him?! Now we were…trapped.

My grip tightened on the clipboard in my hands, the sharp edges digging into my palms. “Alexander,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended.

“Lauren.” His voice was soft, yet curt.

I rolled my eyes. It was Dr. Ava.

The elevator doors trapped us together in the small, suffocating space. Neither of us moved, the silence stretching between us like a taut wire ready to snap, our shoulders neary brushing.

“Back then…” he started, his voice low and uncertain.

I stiffened, my pulse hammering in my ears. “Don’t,” I said quickly, cutting him off. I wasn’t ready for whatever he was about to say. I wasn’t ready for any of this.

But before either of us could say another word, the elevator jolted violently, throwing me off balance. The lights flickered, then went out completely, plunging us into darkness.