Valeria's POV

Seven years.

Seven whole years since I left the States, pregnant and heartbroken, with nothing but a carry-on bag and a secret growing inside me.

Now here I was again-standing at the arrival gate of JFK, holding the hand of the little boy who had become my whole world.

"Valeria!"

I turned just in time to see Clark-my father's ever-loyal assistant-cutting through the crowd, waving at me with a bright smile on his face. He looked exactly the same as I remembered him: tall, sleek, always impeccably dressed in dark suits and matching ties. If not for the wrinkles near his eyes and a few grays in his neatly combed hair, I could almost believe time hadn't touched him.

"Clark," I smiled, and let go of Elliot's hand to give him a quick hug. "You didn't have to come personally."

"Are you kidding?" he said, stepping back. "Your father would have had my head if I didn't show up myself. He's been checking his phone every five minutes since your plane took off."

I laughed softly. "Sounds like Dad."

As Clark helped load our bags into the back of the sleek black town car, Elliot climbed in on his own, settling into the back seat like a little gentleman. I followed after, buckling him in before sitting beside him.

"He's eager to see you both," Clark said as he pulled out of the airport parking lot. "Especially the little guy. He hasn't stopped talking about meeting his grandson again."

I smiled as I looked at Elliot, who was gazing out the window, wide-eyed but calm. "He came to see us when Elliot was born," I reminisced softly. "Flew all the way to Auckland the minute I told him. But he couldn't stay long. Too many things going on in New York."

Clark nodded. "Your father's schedule has always been insane, but I know for a fact those trips were sacred to him. Even if it was just once or twice a year, he always made time for you both."

"I know," I murmured, eyes drifting to the glass. "He tried. He really did."

There had been moments, especially in those early days with Elliot where I missed my mother so badly it felt like my chest was caving in. I remembered what my father told me when I was six: She had decided she wasn't happy with her life and our family. So she decided to leave.

But even as a child, I'd never understood how a mother could leave her daughter like that. One day she was brushing my hair, singing lullabies; the next, she was just... gone. No note. No explanation.

I'd been so close to her, and then nothing.

I remember asking myself over and over: Was I too loud? Too needy? Too much of a burden? I thought maybe if I had smiled more or cried less, she would've stayed. The questions haunted me for years. I'd throw tantrums sometimes, hoping maybe she'd show up if she saw how much I missed her. But all it ever did was hurt my father.

So I stopped.

He was trying so hard to fill the void she left behind, trying to give me everything, anything. And I didn't want him to think he wasn't enough.

But when I gave birth to Elliot, when I sat alone in that hospital room with no one to hold my hand or guide me through the terror of motherhood, I understood what true loneliness felt like.

I almost fell apart. Postpartum hit me hard. I cried when he cried. I panicked over the smallest things. There were nights I couldn't sleep, terrified something would happen to him while I closed my eyes.

I missed her more than ever. But my OB/GYN, bless her heart, had the wisdom of a hundred mothers and the patience of a saint. She doubled as my therapist, guiding me through it, helping me adjust. Without her, I'm not sure I would've made it through those first months.

But I did.

Eventually, I did more than survive-I started to live again.

After settling in Auckland, I finally told my father everything. The truth about the marriage, the lies, the pain and the divorce. Everything Luka had done to me.

He had to excuse himself halfway through.

I thought for sure he'd fly back and kill Luka, but somehow-by what I can only call the grace of God-he kept his word and didn't act on it.

He offered to buy me a home in the city, set me up comfortably. But I declined. I wanted to start over for real.

All my life, I'd been coddled and protected. I had no sense of what the real world felt like. But I was a mother now. I wanted to become someone my son could look up to. Someone he could be proud of.

My father didn't like it, but he respected it. Still, he made me promise that if I ever struggled, really struggled, I'd ask for help.

I promised.

That's how I ended up working with a nonprofit for orphaned and disabled children. At first, it was just something to do. Something to take my mind off everything. But then it became... healing.

Loving those children, seeing the world through their eyes, fighting for their future-it helped me find myself again.

It also gave Elliot an environment filled with love and laughter. He was surrounded by children, most of whom adored him. He grew up kind, sharp and socially active.

And way, way too smart for his age.

"Uncle Clark," Elliot called suddenly from the back seat, not taking his eyes off the road. "We should be arriving at Grandpa's mansion in precisely thirteen minutes, based on the current speed and traffic flow. That's approximately eleven-point-eight miles from our current location."

Clark blinked, then looked back through the mirror, grinning. "Well damn, kid. You're spot on."

Elliot shrugged modestly. "I like to keep my brain active."

Clark laughed. "Alright, what do you want as a reward for being a genius?"

Elliot gave him a stern little look. "Don't treat me like a child, Uncle Clark. I don't need to get a reward for everything or I'll become lazy and spoiled. A treat should be significant."

I couldn't hold back the laugh that escaped me.

"Oh, Elliot," I said fondly, ruffling his blonde hair.

"I only let you do this because I love you, Mommy," he sighed. "Don't abuse that privilege."

I grinned, biting down the laughter bubbling in my chest. "You're too adorable."

Elliot was six, but he had the vocabulary and poise of a miniature professor. With his soft blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, he was every bit my child-but the face?

The face was Luka's.

The sharp jawline, the defined cheekbones, the same expressive eyes, even the way he furrowed his brow when thinking-he was the spitting image of his father. It hurt sometimes. Seeing Luka in him. Remembering everything I'd lost. But no matter how much it hurt, it never touched the love I had for this boy.

He was mine. He was everything.

My little genius.

We'd made a life in New Zealand, and because of my work with the nonprofit, I'd gained some notoriety. My name was often mentioned at charity galas, fundraisers, and awareness campaigns. I didn't chase attention, but my work got noticed anyway.

So when I received an invitation to a massive charity ball in New York, I wasn't entirely surprised.

It was why we'd come.

We were only supposed to be here for a few days, maybe a week. Then we'd fly back to Auckland.

Of course, my father had other plans. He'd been trying to convince me to stay in New York for years now. But I always refused.

I had no intention of running into Luka again. Not now. Not ever.

Still, part of me couldn't shake the feeling that coming back might stir up something buried.

Even now, I was sure Luka still believed I was the villain in his tragic little love story. The heartless heiress who killed his fiancée out of jealousy and got away with it because of her father's money.

But it didn't matter anymore.

I didn't owe him my truth.

I didn't owe him anything.

And if by some twist of fate our paths crossed, I would walk right past him without flinching.

I only care about my family and my work for the greater good.

As if reading my thoughts, Clark cleared his throat. "So, the event starts tomorrow night. It's a formal black-tie charity gala hosted by the Ashton Foundation. Very exclusive, very high-profile. The mayor will be there, a few senators, some of the wealthiest donors in the country."

"Sounds serious," I quipped, turning toward the window.

"You'll be honored during the event," Clark added. "You'll give a short speech, receive an award for your humanitarian work, and possibly secure funding for three new centers in Wellington and Christchurch. All eyes will be on you."

I nodded slowly. I wasn't nervous, I was proud of my work. But this was a whole different level of exposure.

I looked at Elliot. "What about you, baby? Want to come to the ball or stay home with a babysitter?"

Elliot raised a brow, his voice filled with confidence. "I want to come. I even prepared a poem to recite if they give me a mic."

"Oh really?" I smirked.

"I'm going to make you proud, Mommy. Everyone will remember my name."

I didn't doubt it for a second.

Elliot was extraordinary. Every teacher, every counselor, every specialist we'd ever seen had said the same thing: his mind worked in ways far beyond his age. At six years old, he was already solving twelfth grade math problems and reading Shakespeare for fun. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to understand the world in all its depth.

He was curious about everything. Philosophical at times. Sometimes even frighteningly intuitive.

I used to wonder if it would be too much to call him a genius-but I'd stopped wondering a long time ago.

Still, I tried to give him as normal a childhood as I could. I didn't want him growing up thinking intelligence was the only thing that made him special. He was kind, compassionate and full of quiet strength.

He may have had his father's face, but he had none of Luka's cruelty.

And thank God for that.

I reached over and squeezed his hand gently. "You already make me proud every single day."

He smiled up at me with that perfect, boyish charm that melted my heart every time.

I meant what I said. I wasn't just proud of him, I was proud of us.

We'd come a long way-just the two of us. There were times I thought I'd never recover from what Luka did to me. Times I thought I'd never be whole again. But becoming a mother hadn't broken me-it rebuilt me.

And I knew I'd done something right, because Elliot loved life. He was emotionally stable, despite the lack of a father. Happy. Secure.

All the things I never was. But now I was in a better place.

As we arrived at the massive gates of my father's mansion, I knew I was exactly where I was meant to be-for now.

Just a mother with her son. And a new chapter about to begin.

Luka's POV

The past seven years had been tough. That's probably the simplest way to put it-tough.

But the truth?

They had been soul-sucking.

It was easier when Valeria was still around-easier to be angry, to lash out, to have a target for all the pain and bitterness churning in my chest. She was always there, her face a constant reminder of everything I'd lost. Every breath she took under my roof had felt like an insult, a reminder of Isis, of betrayal, of murder. I poured my hatred into her like it was the only way I could survive.

But eventually... I couldn't take it anymore.

Looking at her every day, breathing the same air, hearing her voice-it got to a point where I didn't trust myself. I was going to cross a line. A permanent one.

So I let her go.

I handed her divorce papers, told her I never wanted to see her face again, and kicked her out of my life.

I thought it would make me feel better. That once she was gone, I'd finally have peace. But the reality?

It didn't fix anything.

The rage didn't go away. The emptiness didn't disappear.

Sometimes-when the office went quiet, when the meetings ended, when I was alone with nothing but the buzz of the city outside my window-my thoughts would drift back to her.

Valeria.

And every time they did, I felt the heat rise in my chest. Rage. Frustration. Hurt.

I hated that I still thought about her. I hated that she still had a place in my mind, even if it was buried under layers of resentment.

I hoped life had hit her hard. I hoped karma had finally caught up to her and dragged her into the mud where she belonged.

Where I was too.

Because whether I wanted to admit it or not, I wasn't doing much better.

In the last seven years, I had become a ghost. A walking shell of the man I used to be. I poured myself into work, drowning in deals, deadlines, boardroom politics. I practically lived in the office. I only went home when absolutely necessary-and even then, I couldn't breathe.

The house felt cursed. Like her spirit still lingered in the halls.

I thought about selling it, more than once. Listing it, tearing it down, turning it into a pile of rubble. But I couldn't. It had been in the Thorne family for generations, and my mother would have skinned me alive if I'd even brought up the idea.

And despite everything, I still had some shred of loyalty to the family name.

So instead, I stayed away. I became a permanent fixture at my company. A corporate slave with a title.

Occasionally, I'd hit the bar. Meet someone. Take her back. Pretend for a night that I wasn't miserable.

But it never lasted.

The alcohol wore off. The women left. And I was still just... me. Alone. Bitter. Hollow.

Ten years ago, I had taken revenge. I had forced Valeria into a cold, loveless marriage, just like she deserved. I had punished her for taking Isis away from me. I had won.

So why the hell didn't it feel like a victory?

Why did I wake up every morning dreading the day?

Why did success taste so empty?

I was thirty-two now. By all accounts, I was one of the most influential businessmen in the city. My face was plastered on magazine covers, quoted in financial blogs, gossiped about in Forbes circles. People envied me. Men wanted to be me.

And yet, I couldn't remember the last time I felt something close to joy.

Coffee kept me awake. Work kept me sane. And my office chair had practically become my bed.

Even my mother had started commenting on how much I'd aged.

"You look older than your father did at forty," she said just last week. "This isn't what life is supposed to be, Luka."

And I knew she was right. But what was I supposed to do? Go on a retreat and find myself?

I didn't believe in healing. I didn't believe in moving on.

I didn't believe in love anymore.

Isis had been the only woman I ever truly loved. And Valeria... Valeria had made sure to ruin even the memory of that.

Marriage was a joke now. Just a trap in fine packaging. If my mother kept nagging about grandchildren, I'd get her a damn puppy and call it even.

That was the exact thought in my head as I stepped out of the car and walked toward the towering glass building where the Ashton Foundation's charity ball was being held.

Giant banners and decorative lights wrapped around the columns outside, photographers loitering near the velvet ropes. Men in tuxedos. Women in sequined gowns. The whole thing felt like a circus.

I adjusted my cufflinks, plastered on my signature expressionless look, and walked in.

The only reason I was here was because my mother was close friends with the foundation's owner. Our family had pledged a generous donation-enough to get our name plastered on a commemorative plaque and earn me a few handshakes from smug billionaires.

Social events weren't my thing. I preferred boardrooms and negotiation tables. Not champagne toasts and fake smiles.

Still, I did the rounds. Said hello to a few key people. Nodded through some empty conversations.

Then I made a beeline for the open bar.

The plan was simple: have a drink, hang around for a bit, make sure my presence was noticed, then get the hell out and head back to the office.

I slid into a stool and tapped the counter.

"Mocktail," I told the bartender. "No alcohol. I'm working after this."

He nodded, blending fruit and ice while I stared off into the crowd.

Same people. Same egos. Same pretentious smiles. My brain began to zone out as I took the first sip of the drink and let it dull the buzz around me.

It was just another empty night. Another charity function. Another reminder that I was living in the echo of a life I no longer cared for.

And then I heard it.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to our next honoree-Miss Valeria Daelmont, recipient of this year's Ashton Humanitarian Impact Award for her work with displaced and disabled children across the Pacific."

My grip on the glass faltered.

What?

My head snapped up so fast my neck cracked.

Valeria?

The name rang through my skull like a siren.

I turned toward the stage-and there she was.

Walking up like she belonged here. In a gold dress, of all things. Looking calm. Poised. Respected.

The applause echoed around the room, and I just sat there in stunned silence.

So the witch was back.

After all these years of silence, all these years of wondering if karma had chewed her up and spat her out... here she was. Smiling. Being celebrated.

The murderer was getting an award. For helping children, no less.

The whole thing felt like a sick joke.

I narrowed my eyes, watching her move across the stage like she owned it. Where the hell had she been hiding all this time?

I lifted my glass to take another sip, needing the cold to snap me out of this-

But I didn't get to drink it.

Because something else happened.

Something that made my blood run cold.

A little boy-no older than six-ran up the steps to the stage.

And I froze.

Not because kids never did that at public events, but because the moment I saw his face... my breath caught in my throat.

It was me.

That boy... he looked exactly like me when I was his age. Same bone structure. Same jaw. Same mouth. Same-

Eyes.

No. Not mine.

Bright blue.

Just like Valeria's. And blonde hair too.

I stared, stunned, every cell in my body going still.

She turned and caught him, pulling him close with ease. She smiled at him and ran a hand over his hair.

Everything inside me snapped.

I stood up so fast my stool toppled over.

That's my son. There was no doubt about it.

That little boy was mine.

Valeria Daelmont had my child.

And she had kept him hidden from me for seven years.

How dare she?!

Luka's POV

I didn't move a muscle as Valeria stepped up to the podium, the child still clinging to her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he belonged to her.

To us.

The applause had quieted, but my ears were still ringing. My heart pounded against my ribs, my jaw clenched so tightly I thought I'd shatter my teeth. I should've stormed up to the stage, ripped the mic out of her hand, demanded answers in front of everyone.

But I didn't.

I sat back down and waited.

She looked too composed-too calm. Like nothing about this moment was unnatural. Like she hadn't just shattered my entire world with a single smile and a boy who looked like he'd walked out of my own childhood photos.

She began her speech, talking about the children she'd worked with overseas, about building communities in places that had been overlooked for far too long. She spoke eloquently. Passionately. Her voice didn't waver once.

The audience was moved. I could hear it in the hum of agreement, the occasional sniffle, the murmured praise.

But I didn't care about any of that.

I didn't hear most of it.

All I could hear was my son's laugh from earlier-soft, airy, untouched by the hell I had lived in these past years. My son. Alive. Breathing. Growing up without me.

When her speech ended and the applause roared again, I didn't move.

Not yet.

I watched her from across the room, my body tense, every nerve locked onto her like a predator tracking prey.

She stepped off stage, shook hands with a few executives, knelt to whisper something to the boy-my boy-who nodded and scurried back toward the VIP section with one of the staff members. She looked radiant. Effortlessly confident. Like she belonged on a stage, not in the nightmare I had thrown her into ten years ago.

I waited.

Waited through champagne toasts. Waited through another speech. Waited through her weaving through the crowd like she was floating.

And then it happened.

She broke away, finally slipping through a side hallway that led to the restrooms.

I followed.

Quiet. Careful. Eyes locked on the swish of her gold dress as it shimmered under the hallway lighting.

I didn't go in after her-I wasn't insane.

But I waited.

Leaning against the wall just outside, arms folded, the weight of seven years of betrayal boiling beneath my skin.

My mind kept flashing back to the boy's face.

His face.

I knew what six-year-olds looked like. He couldn't be less than that. Which meant she got pregnant the same time I gave her those damn divorce papers.

She knew. All this time. She knew and said nothing.

The door creaked open after a few minutes.

And there she was.

Hair slightly tousled from freshening up. Lipstick retouched. Her expression relaxed... until she saw me.

She froze for half a second, but it was there-that flicker. Surprise.

Then, just as quickly, she smoothed it over. Composed. Controlled. Unbothered.

"Luka," she said, coolly, like we were strangers running into each other at a café. "Please excuse me."

She moved to walk past me.

I snapped.

I stepped forward, blocking her path, pressing a hand to the wall beside her head, and forced her back a step until her spine hit the wall. My other hand planted beside her. Close. Close enough to make her tilt her head up to meet my eyes.

I didn't care who saw.

"You're not walking away from me," I growled.

Her eyes flicked up to mine, still calm. Still controlled. "Move, Luka."

"No." My voice dropped lower. "You don't get to move on from this. You don't get to pretend like nothing happened."

She arched a brow. "And what exactly do you think happened?"

"You had my son." I didn't shout-but my voice shook with rage. "You had my child and you kept him from me. For six years. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing.

My pulse was pounding. My hands were shaking. I wanted to scream, wanted to shake her, wanted to demand how she could've looked me in the face all those years ago, knowing she was carrying my child.

"You didn't even give me a chance, Valeria!" I snapped. "You didn't tell me! You didn't let me choose! You ripped him away from me before I even knew he existed!"

Still, she said nothing.

"Do you know what that does to a man?" I hissed, leaning closer. "Do you know what you've taken from me? His first words. His first steps. His first birthday. All those damn milestones-you got them. You got every memory, every moment, and I got nothing."

Nothing.

Just cold nights. Empty bottles. And a house that echoed too loud.

"You took everything, and you never looked back. You walked away and just-what? Raised him on your own? Like I didn't matter?"

I could feel the anger unraveling in every cell of my body. All the years I thought I was miserable because of her, and now... now I realized I didn't even know the full extent of what she'd done.

She tilted her head slightly, finally speaking.

"Are you done?"

That did it.

The mockery. The composure. The fact that she didn't even flinch at my anger.

"You're mocking me?" I snapped. "After everything, you're really standing there acting like you're not at fault?"

But before I could keep going, she looked me dead in the eye and said, "Let me ask you a question."

I paused.

She didn't blink. Didn't waver.

"If I had told you I was pregnant with your child... that night. Right after you handed me divorce papers and told me you never wanted to see me again-would you have believed me?"

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because I knew the answer.

And so did she.

She didn't wait for me to fumble through a lie.

"No. You wouldn't have believed me," she said for me, voice low and steady. "You would have called me a liar. Accused me of faking it. Of trying to trap you. You would have said the baby wasn't yours. That I was trying to manipulate you into staying."

I stared at her, jaw tight.

She kept going.

"You might've even tried to force me into an abortion, just to be rid of the problem. You hated me that much."

I wanted to deny it.

But I couldn't.

Because deep down, I knew it was true.

If she had told me back then... I would've accused her of everything under the sun.

I would've refused to believe a single word.

But I wasn't going to admit that.

I was still furious. Still reeling. Still grieving all the years she stole from me.

"You don't get to justify this," I snapped, dragging the words out between clenched teeth. "You still kept my son from me. You deprived me of him. You robbed me blind."

Her face hardened.

"My son," she said, emphasizing every syllable, "doesn't need a father. And you have no place in his life."

Then, without flinching, she shoved me off with both hands and walked away, leaving me standing there in the hallway like I'd just been run over by a freight train.

My fists clenched at my sides. My lungs were burning.

But I wasn't done.

No way in hell.

I finally had something worth living for again.

I had a son.

And I was going to be in his life.

One way or another.