Echoes of the Past
712 Words
The noise of the grand ballroom seemed to recede into a distant, muffled hum.
Maya's fingers tightened around Leo’s small shoulder, pulling him firmly behind her skirts. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Five years. She had spent five agonizing years rebuilding her life from the ashes, convincing herself that Alexander Vance was nothing more than a ghost of a summer she was never meant to survive.
And now, here he was, towering over her with those familiar, terrifying slate-grey eyes.
"Alexander," Maya managed, her voice remarkably steady considering her knees felt like water. She forced her chin up, refusing to shrink under his gaze. "It's been a long time. If you'll excuse us, my son and I need to leave."
"Leave?" Alexander echoed. The word sounded less like a question and more like a localized earthquake.
Before Maya could take a single step backward, Alexander took a sharp, decisive stride forward. His long fingers shot out, not with violence, but with an absolute, unyielding grip around her wrist. His touch sent a jolt of electricity straight up her arm—the exact same electric shock she used to feel when he pulled her close in the quiet hours of the night, long before everything fell apart.
"You don't move an inch until I get some answers," Alexander said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. He didn't care that dozens of high-society elites and reporters were beginning to cast curious sideways glances in their direction. Right now, the entire room had vanished for him.
His gaze flicked down from Maya's pale face back to Leo, who was staring up at the tall stranger with wide, unbothered curiosity.
"Mister, your hand is kind of heavy on my mom's arm," Leo piped up, his small brow furrowing in a protective imitation of an adult. "Let her go."
Alexander froze. Hearing his own voice—or rather, the stubborn, unyielding cadence of his own thoughts—echoed in a four-year-old child's voice hit him harder than a physical blow. The absolute resemblance was undeniable. The shape of the jaw, the slant of the eyes, the sharp, unapologetic defiance.
"How old is he?" Alexander demanded, his eyes snapping back to Maya, burning with a mix of fury, disbelief, and a terrifying undercurrent of raw hunger. "Maya. Look at me and tell me the truth. How old is he?"
"He's four," a voice intervened smoothly, cutting through the heavy air.
Maya gasped in relief as David, her gallery business partner and longtime friend, pushed through the crowd, stepping smoothly between Alexander and Maya. David placed a firm hand on Maya’s free shoulder, flashing the billionaire a polite, professional smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Pardon me, Mr. Vance, but I see you've met my friend's son," David said smoothly, playing the shield Maya desperately needed. "We were just heading out. It seems there's been a bit of an accident with the portfolio, but we'll cover any cleaning costs for your suit."
Alexander’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He looked from David’s hand on Maya’s shoulder back to Maya herself. The sight of another man touching her—protecting her—set a match to a fuse that had been burning for five long years.
"Take your hand off her," Alexander whispered, his voice dangerously low. It wasn't a request; it was a death sentence.
Before David could blink, Alexander’s security detail—two massive men in black suits who had materialized out of nowhere—stepped forward, physically blocking David's path without touching him.
Alexander ignored David entirely. He locked his intense gaze back onto Maya, his grip on her wrist tightening just enough to let her know escape was impossible.
"You think you can run away and hide my own flesh and blood from me for four years?" Alexander stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing hers, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered words that made her blood run cold. "You made your choice five years ago, Maya. But you brought my children into this world. And now, you belong to me again."
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