CHAPTER SIX
733 Words
Adrian's POV
I hated meetings like this, drawn-out, unnecessary, drenched in false politeness and corporate posturing. As CEO, I had a dozen better things to do. But this partnership was worth billions, and showing up personally was a necessary evil.
I stepped into the conference room, my expression carved from stone. My assistant was rambling about projections, contracts, and media strategies, but his voice faded as soon as I crossed the threshold.
I surveyed the room, sleek table, digital screens, too many smiling faces, and felt nothing.
Until the door opened.
Until she walked in.
Time didn’t just slow.
It collapsed.
Amara.
The name slammed into me even before she said a word. I hadn’t spoken it in years, but my mind whispered it like a vow.
Her eyes widened as she froze in the doorway, the color draining from her face. Her lips parted slightly, as if she was trying to speak but her voice had abandoned her.
Mine nearly did the same.
Her hair was longer now, curling against her shoulders. She looked older, softer, more grounded, but unmistakably the same woman who had shattered something inside me that night.
I remembered everything.
How she tasted.
How she breathed.
How she whispered my name like it was a secret she wanted to keep forever.
I’d searched for her the next day.
And the next week.
And the week after.
But she was gone.
Like smoke.
And I had forced myself to pretend that night had meant nothing.
I took a step toward her before I even realized I was moving.
“Amara?”
The word scraped out of me, rougher and deeper than I’d intended.
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Adrian.”
Silence fell across the room, sharp and heavy.
Every man and woman sitting there felt the air shift. Felt something rumble beneath the surface of my calm exterior. My assistant glanced between us, confused and alarmed.
But I didn’t care.
Because that was when I saw her.
A small girl.
Maybe three years old.
Clutching Amara’s hand.
She stepped slightly from behind her mother’s leg, as though curious about the tension in the room.
And then she looked at me.
My lungs turned to iron.
Gray eyes.
Stormy.
Clear.
Mine.
Everything inside me went brutal and still.
The room disappeared, the clients, the screens, the polished table. All of it blurred into nothing as the little girl blinked up at me.
“…Mommy?” she whispered. “Who is he?”
The sound of her voice nearly broke me in half.
My daughter.
I didn’t need a test, a confirmation, a single explanation.
I knew.
I felt it with the same certainty I felt my own heartbeat.
My daughter.
The world narrowed to a single point, Amara’s terrified gaze meeting mine.
She pulled the little girl closer instinctively. Protective. Hesitant. Guilty. Something flashed in her eyes, a plea? A warning?
It didn’t matter.
My voice, when it came, was quiet. Too quiet.
“You have something to tell me.”
Amara flinched, not like she was guilty, but like she was afraid of breaking.
The room thickened with silence. My assistant shifted uncomfortably. Someone tried to speak, then thought better of it.
I took another step forward, and her grip tightened around the child.
“You’re going to explain this,” I told her, though anger wasn’t the strongest thing in me.
Shock.
Pain.
And something I didn’t dare name.
Her lips parted, trembling. “Adrian… please. Not here.”
Not here.
Not now.
Not in front of strangers.
The rational part of me knew she was right.
But the part of me currently shattering didn’t care about rationality.
Three years.
Three f*****g years.
Three years she raised my daughter alone.
Three years she kept her from me.
Three years she disappeared without a word.
And now fate dumped her in my conference room like a twisted joke.
I tore my gaze from her only long enough to look at the child again.
My daughter.
My blood.
My legacy.
I looked back at Amara, my eyes harder than steel.
“We’re not done,” I said. “Not until I know everything.”
Her breath hitched.
And in that moment, fear warred with something else in her expression.
Regret.
Pain.
Memory.
The same memory burning through my veins now.
This was only the beginning of the firestorm.
- Writer
