EMILY’S POV.

…Four years later…

The smell of cinnamon and toast drifted through the small kitchen, mingling with the soft crackle of the old radio playing a quiet jazz tune in the background.

Light spilled through the cream-colored curtains, golden and delicate, the kind that made the whole room feel like it was wrapped in warmth.

The apartment wasn’t big, but every corner held something that mattered, a drawing taped crookedly on the fridge, a chipped coffee mug with a lipstick stain, a firetruck toy abandoned under the table.

It was home. Ours.

I stirred the oatmeal gently, there was something soothing about the rhythm of mornings like this. No alarms, no deadlines pressing in. Just me, my little boy, and the quiet pulse of a day beginning.

Then, a giggle.

I turned, wooden spoon still in hand, just in time to catch a flash of movement, a pair of tiny feet disappearing behind the couch.

“Aiden,” I called, already grinning, “breakfast is almost ready, and I know you’re hiding with a spoonful of peanut butter again.”

There was a pause, followed by a muffled squeak from behind a pillow. “I’m not!”

I walked a few steps toward the living room, peering around the couch just as he tried to slink out the other side, peanut butter mustache and all.

I raised an eyebrow. “That spoon better not be touching the couch this time, mister.”

Aiden let out a sigh big enough for a grown man and trudged into the kitchen, dragging his stuffed dinosaur by the arm. “It’s part of the mission.”

He looked up at me, three and a half years old, wild curls tumbling into his eyes, wearing those too-small dinosaur pajamas he refused to let go of. There was peanut butter on his cheek and sleep still in his eyes.

And those eyes, bright, green,

My eyes.

But everything else, the sharp cheekbones, the stubborn tilt of his chin, the thoughtful crease in his brow when he focused too hard… that was all him.

Lauren Blackwood’s son.

Aiden plopped into his usual chair at the table like he’d just returned from a battlefield. “Being a ninja is hard work,” he declared, swinging his legs.

I turned back to the stove, trying not to smile. “Ninjas don’t leave peanut butter trails.”

“That’s a decoy,” he replied, serious as anything, picking up his toast. “To confuse the enemy.”

I grabbed my coffee, leaning on the counter with one hip. “Is the enemy me?”

He looked up, toast halfway to his mouth. “You’re the boss ninja,” he whispered, like it was classified. “Like Sensei… but prettier.”

A laugh escaped before I could stop it. He always said things like that, sweet, unfiltered truths that hit me straight in the heart. I swear, some days I survived on his voice alone.

I crossed the kitchen, sat beside him, and gently tucked a stray curl behind his ear. “You’re my favorite person in the whole world, you know that?”

He beamed. “You’re my best girl.”

There it was, the kind of simple, soul-breaking love you don’t expect to deserve. His words always seemed to find the cracks in me and fill them with light.

“Mama?” he asked, quieter now, with that thoughtful tone that made me brace every time.

“Yes, baby?”

He pushed his toast around on his plate. “Why don’t I have a daddy?”

The words landed like a soft stone, not painful, just heavy. Familiar now.

The wound that had once stung with guilt had become a dull scar I’d learned to live around. Still, it caught me every time, how easily he asked. How gently he carried the ache I’d spent years trying to shield him from.

I reached for his little hand, brushing my thumb over his knuckles. “Because sometimes, it takes a while to find the right people. But we’ve got each other, and that’s more than enough, right?”

He nodded slowly, but I could see it, that little crease between his brows, that flicker of something beneath his eyes. A seed that had been planted. Questions I wasn’t ready for. Not yet.

I kissed his forehead and held there for a moment longer. “Come on,” I said softly. “Let’s get you dressed. You’ve got school, and I’ve got another thrilling day of spreadsheets and stale breakroom coffee.”

He giggled and jumped off the chair. “Race you!”

He darted down the hallway, feet slapping against the wood floors, and I let him win, like always.

I stayed back for a moment, my coffee cooling in my hands, and let the silence settle again.

This life, this tiny, ordinary world wasn’t perfect. It was filled with sticky fingers, missed buses, and nights when I lay awake wondering how I got here. But it was mine. And I had fought tooth and nail for every inch of it.

I glanced toward the hallway, where Aiden was narrating an epic battle between socks and dinosaurs. My heart ached just looking at him.

He didn’t ask for this life, but he made it beautiful.

We dressed together, and he insisted on picking out his own clothes, which meant a red cape, rain boots, and a t-shirt that said “future CEO.”

I didn’t argue. I rarely did. He had so little to control in his world. If a cape made him brave, he could wear it forever as far as I was concerned.

On the walk to preschool, he held my hand tight, skipping every other step and pointing out birds, clouds, and a suspicious-looking worm that he was convinced was trying to cross the road illegally.

At the gate, he stopped and looked up at me with that serious little frown again.

“Mama?”

“Yeah, love?”

“When I’m a big person, will I still love you?”

I knelt down to his level, blinking fast. “You’ll love me even more. Because you’ll understand how much I loved you first.”

He nodded solemnly. “I’ll buy you a spaceship.”

I laughed, my arms wrapping around him. “I’ll hold you to that.”

He ran inside, cape flying behind him, and I stood there longer than I should’ve, watching him disappear into the classroom, still smiling.

The walk to the bus stop felt quieter without him. The city buzzed around me like always, people rushing, horns honking, coffee cups in hand. But I felt… still. I had built this rhythm, this safe little orbit and I guarded it fiercely.

I got to work on time. Sat at my cubicle, smiled at the right people, answered emails like my job depended on it, which it did. I wasn’t building a career, not really. I was building stability. For him. For us.

At lunch, I scrolled through the local news mindlessly, my fork halfway to my mouth, when a headline made my stomach knot:

“Blackwood Industries acquires top software firm in Midtown expansion.”

I froze.

There was a photo beneath the headline. Lauren Blackwood, sharp as ever in a black tailored suit, standing next to a group of executives shaking hands.

It had been four years since I’d seen that face. Since I’d snuck out of that city with shaking hands and a secret growing inside me.

And here he was, in my city. In Midtown.

Right where my office was.

My phone buzzed on the desk, a calendar reminder: “Company-wide Q2 strategy meeting this Friday. CEO from partner firm attending.”

My throat dried.

No. It couldn’t be.

But deep down… I already knew.

The past always had a way of circling back.

And I had no idea that by the end of the week… Lauren Blackwood would walk back into my life.