Elena's POV

I will never forget the sound of laughter echoing through the hallways of my own home, nor the way it burned into my chest like acid once I realised it wasn’t mine. My keys slipped from my hand as I stood frozen in the doorway, my heart pounding against my ribs so violently it drowned out everything else. I should have walked away. I should have turned around, packed a bag, and never looked back. But curiosity, no, suspicion, was a cruel master. My feet carried me forward, step after shaky step, until I reached the half-open bedroom door. There she was. My sister. My twin. Isabella. Her head thrown back, her nails clawing at the sheets that had once been mine. Her body tangled with the man I had promised to love me forever, my husband, Michael. The world collapsed in a single, brutal heartbeat. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t give them the satisfaction. I simply backed away, numb from head to toe, until I was outside again, the cool night air biting at my skin. My chest heaved, but no sound came. I thought of every lie they must have told me, every look exchanged when they thought I wasn’t paying attention. All of it came together in an ugly, unforgivable truth.

My sister had stolen my husband. That night blurred into neon lights and the bitter burn of vodka down my throat. Bar after bar, glass after glass, I chased the numbness I couldn’t quite catch. People pressed in around me, strangers’ voices buzzing like static, and I let myself drift into the chaos. Anything was better than thinking. That’s when I saw him. The tall, broad-shouldered man, dressed in a suit that spoke of money and power. His eyes, an arresting shade of stormy grey, met mine across the bar. A stranger, yet in that moment, the only lifeline I had left. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t demand explanations. When he came to stand beside me, ordering a drink with quiet authority, I felt myself leaning into him as if I’d known him forever. We didn’t exchange names. We didn’t need to. I remember his hand warm against the small of my back, steadying me when I stumbled. I remember the press of his lips against mine, urgent and rough, as though he too carried secrets too heavy to bear. The rest of the night unfolded in flashes: tangled sheets, breathless whispers, skin against skin, a desperate need to feel something other than betrayal.

The following morning, I woke with a pounding head and a hollow chest. The bed was empty. He was gone, and I didn’t care enough to wonder who he was. I gathered my clothes, left the hotel, and swore I’d never think of that night again. However, fate has a cruel sense of humour. Eight years later, Paris had become my sanctuary. The sunlight streamed through the tall windows of my apartment overlooking the Seine, spilling warmth across the kitchen where two pairs of shoes sat haphazardly by the door. I smiled as I watched Dean and Daniella chase each other around the table, their laughter filling the space that had once felt so impossibly empty.

“Dean, don’t run with that in your mouth,” I scolded gently, plucking the piece of toast from his hand before he could choke on it. He shot me a look, serious, thoughtful, far too mature for a seven-year-old, before taking the plate I offered. Daniella, on the other hand, giggled mischievously, her curls bouncing as she spun in circles.

“Mommy, Dean says I can’t be a ballerina because ballerinas don’t eat croissants,” She announced with dramatic flair. I crouched down, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“Well, your brother is wrong. Ballerinas eat whatever makes them happy, and right now, that’s croissants.” I smile at my daughter. Dean rolled his eyes, muttering something about “facts,” but I caught the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He was always the protector, my little shadow who seemed to sense when I needed strength I didn’t have. Daniella was the light, the laughter, the warmth that pulled me out of my darkest nights. They were my everything. My secret.

No one in New York knew about them. Not my family. Not old friends. Certainly not Isabella or Michael. The thought of their greedy hands reaching for my children, of them using Dean and Daniella as pawns to claw at the inheritance my grandmother had left me, makes me shiver. I would die before I let that happen. I thought I had buried my old life forever. But then the letter came.

It sat on the table, the envelope heavy with the crest of my grandmother’s estate embossed in gold. My hand trembled as I picked it up, my breath catching. I hadn’t spoken to anyone from my family in years, not since the night I walked away. But the words inside pulled me back across the ocean with brutal finality.

Elena, as my only true heir, I leave you everything: the estate, the family business, the legacy of our name. You must return to New York to claim it. The paper slipped from my hands, landing softly on the table. Dean noticed the change in my expression immediately.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” His voice was careful, worried. I forced a smile, ruffling his hair.

“Nothing, sweetheart. Just grown-up things,” I smiled at my son. But my mind was already spinning. Returning meant facing Isabella and Michael. It meant walking into a pit of vipers who would do anything to tear me apart. And most terrifying of all, it meant risking the only secret I had left, the truth about Dean and Daniella’s father. Because no matter how far I ran, no matter how carefully I hid, the past had found me. I wasn’t sure I was ready for what came next.

Now, I am sitting in first class on a plane to New York. Uncertain of what the future holds for my children and me. I can only pray I can keep my children away from my greedy family. I can only pray I can keep them a secret until I have done what I have to do, and I can return to my safe haven in Paris.