DAMIAN LOCKE
Damien was shaken, no way around it. The guy built his whole life on logic—cold, hard, nothing-slips-through logic. Risks? Sure, but only the ones he’d already dissected six ways from Sunday. And then, boom: Noah Cruz. Kid just shows up and, honestly, it’s like someone lobbed a grenade into Damien’s spreadsheet-perfect world. That stare, that weirdly familiar smirk… It’s messing with his head, big time.
He watched Lena hustle the kid out, her hand practically swallowing his. She looked ready to throw down with anyone who got too close—a momma bear with a permanent “Do Not Disturb” sign. Damien told himself to chill. Coincidence, right? Argento Heights is crawling with smart kids and, let’s be real, more than a few hot single moms.
But nope. His brain wouldn’t let it go.
The auditorium hummed with the usual post-event chaos—parents clapping, teachers glowing, the air thick with burnt coffee and nervous sweat. Damien just stood there, locked onto the doorway like a man possessed, watching Lena and Noah disappear.
Here comes Elias Thorne, headmaster and resident schmoozer, gliding over. “Damien, wonderful to see you so engaged with the scholarship program! Your donation’s going to change lives.”
Damien faked a smile. “Yeah, happy to help, Elias.” He hesitated, played it casual. “Saw a kid—Noah Cruz? Bright as hell. You know his deal?”
Elias lit up. “Noah’s a genius, honestly. Off the charts. His mom, Lena, works herself to the bone for him.” Something flickered in Elias’s face—pity, maybe? “She’s had a rough go. But she’s tough as nails.”
“Independent, huh?” Damien echoed, letting the word hang.
Elias’ smile twitched. “The family stuff… Lena keeps it private. Doesn’t talk about the dad.”
Damien didn’t need more. He got what he came for. He shook Elias’s hand, made some polite noises, and got the hell out.
Meanwhile, Lena was making a break for it—practically dragging Noah through the parking lot, panic thumping in her chest. Damien. Here. Of all days. Universe has a sick sense of humor.
“Mommy, why are we running?” Noah piped up, all confusion and big eyes.
Lena stopped, forced a breath. “We’re not running, sweetie. Just tired, that’s all. Let’s go home.”
Noah nodded, frowning. “That man seemed nice. He said I was smart.”
Lena’s stomach twisted. “Yeah, well, sometimes people say stuff they don’t mean.”
She buckled Noah in, hands shaking. Driving home, her mind kept looping—Damien’s ice-cold stare, Noah’s innocent chatter. The past she’d tried so hard to bury was clawing its way out. She’d protect Noah, no matter what. Even if it meant running. Again.
Back at Locke Enterprises, Damien was already in full control-freak mode. “Get me everything you can on Lena Cruz. All of it—address, job stuff, money, you name it. And run the kid too—Noah Cruz. School, medical, whatever you can dig up. I want to know about his… parentage.”
He hung up, jaw clenched. He knew he was being nuts, borderline stalker. Didn’t care. That weird déjà vu had its claws in him now.
Later, a thick report slammed onto his desk. Damien skimmed: Lena Cruz, 26, two jobs—nanny and waitress, squeaky clean record, barely scraping by in a dumpy apartment. Not exactly thriving.
Noah: four, scholarship kid at Argento Prep, brainiac. And—yeah—no dad listed anywhere.
Damien’s eyes locked on that last bit. No father on the birth certificate. Coincidence? Ha. Damien Locke stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago.
He leaned back, steepled his fingers, thinking hard. Five years ago. One night. Too much whiskey, too much regret, and a woman whose name he never caught. He’d tried to bury it under work and ambition, but now? The past was back and kicking the door down.
He spun his chair toward the massive screen on his wall, pulling up hotel security footage from five years ago. Long shot, but whatever. That night was a blur, and the camera work? Not exactly Hollywood.
He found the right time. Watched himself stumble out of his hotel room, looking like hell. Then, a few minutes later, a woman slipped out too—red dress, face hidden in the shadows.
He squinted, cranking the zoom way past what the pixels could handle. Honestly, it looked like a potato—blurry as hell. Still, there was her cheekbone, the sharp line of her jaw. And then—wait, what’s that? Something caught the light at her throat. Tiny, silver, almost tucked away under her dress collar. A necklace. Not just any necklace, either. His necklace. The one he’d handed over that night, the memory still burned in his brain.
His pulse went wild. He mashed the zoom again, even though the image was already begging for mercy. Her face, her posture, the whole vibe—felt eerily familiar.
“No way,” he muttered, voice scratchy, throat suddenly dry. “No freaking way.” He jabbed the intercom, barking for his best security guy. “Get me info on this necklace. Who bought it, who made it—everything.”
Next, he yanked up the fancy image recognition software from Locke Tech. Supposedly it could spot your grandma in a crowd at Coachella. Results popped up faster than he could blink. Bunch of matches, all pointing at one name: Lena Cruz.
The shock was like a punch right to the gut. Lena. The single mom scraping by. The woman he’d written off as a one-night footnote. The mother of a kid who, now that he thought about it, looked way too much like him.
Nope. Ridiculous. Except…well…the facts weren’t exactly leaving him room to wiggle out. Apparently, he had a son. And he’d been blissfully clueless.
“This is nuts. I’m seeing what I want to see,” Damien groaned, fingers digging into his temples. “They don’t even look that much alike. What the hell am I doing?” He glared at the screen, jaw clenched. “Or maybe she’s the one, but the kid isn’t mine. Or maybe—hell, I don’t know. There’s just something about her…” If anybody walked in right now, they’d probably call HR and ask if the CEO needed a vacation—or a straitjacket.