The hospital corridor smelled faintly of antiseptic and warm cotton, but beneath the clean brightness of its lights floated something heavier — a silence thick with memories Lia had tried to bury for five years.
Her hands trembled as she stood outside the private waiting room the nurse had directed her to. She could hear voices inside. Men shifting. A chair sliding. Footsteps pacing — slow, heavy, controlled. The kind of footsteps she had never forgotten.
Her lungs tightened.
Damien.
She hadn't said his name out loud in years, but now it pulsed inside her chest like a second heartbeat. She held the file of her son's medical forms against her chest, as if it could shield her.
Then the door opened.
Only halfway.
Just enough for his voice to slip out.
"Let her in."
Two simple words. Deep. Calm. Commanding.
Her pulse tripped. The nurse gave her a subtle nod, encouraging her forward.
Lia stepped inside.
The room wasn't large, but it felt like the air had dropped ten degrees when she crossed the threshold. Damien stood near the window, tall and sharply dressed, hands in his pockets, body still and powerful like a storm held back by sheer will. City light poured behind him, outlining the broadness of his shoulders, the rigid line of his jaw, and the quiet danger of a man built to win every war placed before him.
He didn't look at her at first — almost as if he was afraid to.
But when he finally did…
Everything stopped.
His eyes, cold and stormy as she remembered, locked onto hers. The world, the room, the past — all of it vanished under the weight of that stare. Her breath hitched, something in her chest twisting in a way she didn't want to name.
Damien's expression didn't change, but the air pulsed with restrained emotion. Fury. Shock. Something raw he refused to let surface.
"Lia."
Her name sounded different in his voice now. Deeper. Rougher. Less controlled.
She swallowed hard. "Damien."
His body tensed — shoulders sharp, jaw clenched.
He looked at her the same way he used to look at opponents across a negotiation table: studying, calculating, peeling apart every layer she tried to hide behind.
"You didn't think I'd find you, did you?" he asked quietly.
It wasn't a shout.
It wasn't anger exploding.
It was worse — a calm, dangerous tone that vibrated with everything he wasn't saying.
Lia lifted her chin. "I didn't think you were still looking."
Damien's eyes narrowed.
"I never stopped."
Her throat tightened.
He took a step forward — slow, measured, dominant without needing to raise his voice. The kind of presence that filled the room without effort. The kind that reminded her why she once felt safe… and why she eventually ran.
"Five years." His voice dropped lower. "You disappear. No calls. No explanations. Nothing. And when I finally see you again…"
His gaze flicked over her, lingering on the trembling of her hands.
"…it's because of a child who looks exactly like me."
The words hit like a stone dropped into still water — ripples spreading, unstoppable.
Lia's fingers tightened around the medical file.
She forced herself to breathe.
"Damien—"
"No."
He closed the remaining distance between them, stopping just close enough for her to feel the warmth of his presence.
His voice was soft, but it cut straight through her.
"Tell me the truth, Lia."
Her heart pounded painfully.
"Is he mine?"
The room went silent.
Even the hum of the air conditioner seemed to fade.
She felt her world tilt, memories slamming into her — the night she left, the reason she ran, the danger that had forced her to protect her child.
Her lips parted.
Damien's eyes locked onto hers, full of tension and something almost desperate beneath the surface.
And she whispered—