The scent of fresh cinnamon and spilled juice filled the apartment. It wasn’t glamorous, not even close—mismatched furniture, an annoyingly loud radiator, and windows that creaked with each change in the wind—but it was home.

My home.

Leo's laughter echoed from the kitchen as he chased after a foam dinosaur, the kind that puffed up with water and smelled vaguely toxic.

I should probably get that disposed, I thoiught with concern.

He still had his Spider-Man pajamas on, his hair a wild mess of golden curls, face sticky with jelly from the toast he'd partially eaten before skipping breakfast altogether.

"Leo!" I called out from the doorway of the bathroom, toothbrush clutched in my hand. "Your breakfast is still on the table."

“I’m fighting the lava monster, Mommy!”

“Eat fast, or the lava monster’s going to get hungry.”

“No mommy!” he screamed, running around the room like something was actually chasing him.

This boy. I grinned, spitting out the mouthful of toothpaste in the sink.

As much as I loved my boy, we couldn’t do this today, I had no time for this. We'd had back-to-back design consults, a showroom sample delay, and an invoice for a late payment that would either save or doom our studio's rent for next month. And yet, I lingered—just for a second—to see him sprint around the living room with his arms outstretched like wings.

Leo was three and a half. Clever, stubborn, and charming in a way that drew smiles from strangers when he met them in supermarket aisles. But his eyes were what stood out the most.

His dad's eyes.

A spectacular seafoam green that reminded me of home. Of Cassian. The kind of eyes you can never forget — even after four years.

It didn’t help that he had his father’s face. In fact, the only thing the boy got from me was my hair and a small matching beauty mark at the right side of his upper lip.

I turned away, my chest burning with feelings, and focused on putting on a new blouse and taming the flyaway curls from my recently knotted bun. Today had to be boring. I didn’t want extra drama.

No memories. No past.

At that moment, Selena burst in at exactly 8:03 a.m., sunglasses perched atop her very blue curls and a latte cradled in her hand. "God, do you know what traffic does to a woman's soul? I need a Xanax and Jesus."

"Good morning to you as well," I said, tossing her Leo's jacket. "Your godson has not eaten."

"You mean my bestie? My emotional support gremlin? My mini-CEO?" Naomi let her bag fall, as she scooped up Leo mid-sprint, and spun him around. "Why are you so sticky, you little monster?"

"Because I defeated the lava monster with jelly fists!" he yelled triumphantly.

"Oh, well. Can't argue with that."

"Selena," I warned, half-laughing. "We have clients at ten. Don't get him worked up."

"Relax. He's going off to preschool in twenty. I'm taking him in."

I stood there, unsure of what to say. "Seriously? I thought I was—"

"I bribed you last night with tiramisu, remember? Don't play dumb."

Right. She had. I'd been too tired to remember.

Selena Sanchez was chaos wrapped in Gucci, and the greatest choice I'd ever made. Well, after Leo of course. She'd been my design school roommate, my business partner from day one, and the sole person who had even a glimpse of the truth regarding where I came from.

Or who.

"Okay," I replied, swatting imaginary lint from my slacks. "Just no candy this time. You know how he is."

"Wild and fabulous. Got it."

She winked, grabbing her keys. "Don't get stressed. Today's gonna be good. I can feel it."

I wished I could believe her.

By noon, I had convinced myself that I could survive the day.

We’d closed a consultation with a wealthy client in Palo Alto who wanted to redesign her entire guest house to feel “like Bali, but also like Aspen.” Which meant confused architecture and endless fabric samples, but also a check with a comma.

I should’ve been relieved. Thrilled, even.

But that dull weight in my chest hadn’t lifted since this morning.

While Selena sorted invoices on her desk, I sat across from mine and stared at my laptop screen not really seeing it. My inbox was cluttered with the usual: reminders, supplier delays, a spam message regarding a crypto convention.

And then there was a lone new email sitting atop the stack.

Subject: Restoration Proposal Inquiry – Thornwell Estate

My blood froze.

I didn't even open it right away. As my finger hovered over the trackpad.

The name hit me like a punch to the ribs.

Thornwell.

God. I had not seen it written out like that since I was a young adult.

I felt Naomi's eyes before she asked, "You okay?"

"Yeah." I opened it sharply. Played the whole situation like my hands weren't trembling.

The wording of the message was straightforward, formal, elegant—a proposition for our firm to bid on a full historic restoration. No specific names provided. No signed-off details. Just specs and coordinates and a promise of high-paying creative liberty.

But I knew that house. That land. That name.

"You're pale," Naomi said, frowning now. "What is it?"

"It's… it's nothing. Just a giant project. East Coast."

Her eyes narrowed. "Belle."

"I'm fine."

"Is it Thornwell?"

I jerked my head up. "How did you—"

"I'm not an idiot. You think I don't remember you sobbing for two weeks senior year when you disappeared for 'family reasons' and never explained? I know that name rattles you."

I swallowed thickly.

"I don't want to talk about it," I told her.

Selena stood up, came around the desk, and rested her arm on the edge beside me. "Don't say anything. But tell me one thing—if this is who I think it is… are you okay?"

I didn't answer.

Because the thing was, I had no idea. I hadn't seen or heard from Cassian Thornwell in four years. I had no idea what kind of man he was now. And I had no idea what I'd do if he caught sight of our son and knew the truth.

My stomach roiled.

Naomi didn't pressure me. She just reached over and placed a hand on my shoulder and said, "We don't have to take it. You know that, right?"

"I know."

But as I glanced down at the numbers — the scale of the budget, the face of the property — I knew too what she wasn't telling me.

We needed this project.

I had bills. Staff. A preschool that raised rates every fall. I didn't have the luxury of denying projects.

Anyway….

I closed the email, saved the paper to a hidden folder, and turned off my screen. The silence that followed was heavy, tight, like the quiet before a scream.

My phone rang.

Unknown Number. Savannah, GA.

My breath caught.

I didn’t answer.

But somehow, I knew:

The past had just opened its door.