The drive home passed in complete silence.
Damiano couldn't remember a single traffic light.
He couldn't remember overtaking another car.
He couldn't even remember starting the engine.
His body had driven.
His mind had remained behind...
Standing outside Lara Thorne's office.
Watching Alankrita cradle a child in her arms.
Watching her smile with a happiness that had never been meant for him.
He entered his penthouse like a man walking through a dream.
The luxurious apartment overlooking the London skyline was immaculate, exactly as he had left it that morning.
Floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the glittering city beneath the evening sky.
A half-finished bottle of Bordeaux rested on the kitchen island.
Fresh lilies stood in a crystal vase.
Everything was perfect.
Everything was orderly.
Yet for the first time...
The silence felt suffocating.
He loosened his tie and threw it onto the sofa.
It landed carelessly.
He didn't bother looking at it.
His eyes drifted toward the dark window.
Instead of seeing London's skyline...
He saw Alankrita.
"Mama's here, pumpkin."
His jaw tightened.
Then came another memory.
The little boy's delighted laugh.
"Mama!"
His fingers curled into fists.
"No..."
The word escaped as a whisper.
"No..."
He shut his eyes.
The images only became clearer.
Her kissing the child's forehead.
Her laughing.
Holding him as though he were her entire universe.
The tenderness in her eyes...
The love...
The overwhelming devotion...
He had never seen anyone look at another human being that way.
His chest burned.
Why?
Why did it hurt so much?
He had no claim over her.
No right to question her life.
No promise had ever existed between them.
She had never flirted with him.
Never encouraged him.
Never even hinted that she belonged to anyone.
Everything he felt...
Everything he imagined...
Had been created inside his own heart.
Then why did it feel like betrayal?
Unable to endure the endless questions clawing through his mind, he reached for his phone.
His thumb hovered over one familiar contact.
He pressed it.
The line connected almost immediately.
"Good evening, sir."
"Dig."
His secretary blinked.
"Sir?"
"Alankrita."
His voice was frighteningly calm.
"I want everything."
A brief silence followed.
"Everything?"
"Everything."
His eyes remained fixed on the city lights beyond the glass.
"Family."
"Education."
"Background."
"Relationships."
His voice lowered further.
"And the child."
The secretary hesitated only for a second.
"Yes, sir."
The call ended.
Minutes felt like hours.
Damiano poured himself a glass of wine.
It remained untouched.
He stood beside the window, staring into nothing.
Every answer he imagined contradicted the last.
Perhaps...
She was a widow.
No.
She looked far too young.
Maybe the child belonged to her sister.
Or perhaps,
His thoughts abruptly stopped.
He remembered the little boy's voice.
"Mama."
There had been no hesitation.
No confusion.
Only certainty.
She was his mother.
There was no escaping that truth.
Nearly an hour later...
His phone rang.
The screen displayed his secretary's name.
Damiano answered immediately.
"Sir."
"What did you find?"
Papers rustled on the other end.
"We've verified her academic records."
He remained silent.
"Alankrita is currently studying Journalism at Cambridge University."
He closed his eyes.
Cambridge.
Of course.
He already knew she was brilliant.
"Continue."
"She's one of the university's top students."
He waited.
"There are no criminal records."
"No scandals."
"No disciplinary actions."
Nothing surprising.
She wasn't capable of any of those things.
Then,
"There is one confirmed detail."
His grip tightened around the phone.
"The little boy is legally registered as her son."
The words landed like a hammer.
Damiano's throat went dry.
"...Age?"
"He'll turn one within the next few weeks."
His breathing became shallow.
"And Alankrita?"
There was another pause.
"Nineteen."
Silence.
Heavy.
Oppressive.
Impossible.
Nineteen.
A mother...
At nineteen.
His mind refused to accept it.
He calculated instinctively.
She would have carried the child...
When she herself had barely crossed into adulthood.
His thoughts became tangled.
Questions collided violently.
Who was the father?
Where was he?
Why had no one mentioned him?
Why was she raising the child alone?
And...
Why had she never spoken about any of this?
His secretary continued carefully.
"That's all we've been able to confirm so far, sir."
Damiano barely heard him.
His thoughts were racing too quickly.
A nineteen-year-old journalism student.
A mother.
The same young woman whose shy blushes, gentle manners, and quiet dignity had convinced him she had lived a sheltered life.
The same girl who spoke about life with such innocent wonder.
The same girl whose untouched grace had slowly become his greatest weakness.
His heart whispered that something didn't fit.
Something was missing.
Nothing about Alankrita resembled deceit.
Nothing.
Yet every fact before him screamed otherwise.
Reason battled emotion.
Logic fought obsession.
But obsession was louder.
Far louder.
He remembered every conversation they had shared.
Every smile.
Every blush.
Every metaphor she had used while interviewing him.
How easily he had mistaken innocence for simplicity.
How foolishly he had built dreams upon assumptions.
His pride twisted the pain into anger.
Not because she had lied.
She hadn't.
She had never spoken about her personal life.
Not once.
Yet somewhere deep inside...
He felt cheated.
Not by her words.
By his own expectations.
He had unconsciously placed her upon a pedestal.
Made her into an impossible ideal.
Now that image lay shattered at his feet.
His breathing grew uneven.
His heart refused to let go.
His mind refused to forgive.
And between the two...
Something dark quietly took root.
A dangerous mixture of heartbreak...
Possessiveness...
And wounded pride.
Outside, rain began to fall against the glass.
Inside, Damiano stood motionless.
His reflection stared back at him.
For the first time in years...
The man looking back looked utterly lost.