Hours passed in an easy blur. The tension softened with laughter — rare fleeting moments of random bickering. Milan bought him everything he wanted; shoes, a watch, books, even a small drone he claimed he could program to follow the cat. She knew she was overcompensating, but she didn't care.
Then, just as they exited another store, a voice called her name — too sweet, too familiar.
"Milan Vanquez! it's really you!"
Milan turned slowly, her expression neutral. The woman approaching wore a dress too tight for day and a smile too wide to trust.
Daisy Almarez — her once closest confidante, now a rumor in silk.
"Daisy," Milan said with cool politeness. "It's been a long time."
"Seven years!" Daisy laughed, drawing her into a light embrace that smelled of expensive perfume and facade . "I thought you disappeared after… well, you know."
Milan's smile didn't move past her lips. "Life tends to re-arrange itself."
Daisy's gaze flickered to Liam. "Oh...! And who's this handsome little man? Don't tell me he's—"
"My son," Milan said, her tone flat enough to silence the curiosity.
Daisy's eyebrows arched delicately. "He looks just like—"
"Enough, Daisy." Milan tone sharpened
Her smile faltered. But only for a second. "Of course. I just didn't expect motherhood to suit you so well. You've changed… softer, maybe?"
Milan met her gaze, unblinking. "Or perhaps sharper. Hard to tell the difference sometimes, isn't it?"
They exchanged pleasantries that meant nothing more than a facade . Daisy chattered about investments, parties, alliances; Milan listened, offering the occasional nod. It was strange how easily Daisy could weaponize charm, how she could keep on the facade of a white lotus.
As they parted, Daisy leaned closer. "Be careful, Milan. Some ghosts don't stay buried —especially the Milwaukee kind."
Milan didn't respond. She only smiled that slow, elegant smile that had once made men think twice.
Daisy hesitated but finally left. And Milan followed immediately into her SUVs.
In the car, silence returned. Liam was quiet, staring at the bag resting on his lap.
"You don't like her," he said finally.
"No," Milan answered. "But in this world, liking someone isn't the same as trusting them."
He looked thoughtful at that.
"Do you trust anyone?" he asked.
The question hung in the air. Milan turned her gaze toward the skyline — the empire she'd built brick by calculated brick, now shadowed by the ghosts of her past.
"I'm learning to again," she said softly. Then, after a pause, "Maybe that's what coming home is for."
He leaned against her arm, enough for her to feel the warmth of him, small and real.
Milan looked down, her expression unreadable, but her hand found his hair and rested there. Gently.
Outside, the city moved — restless, alive, unknowing of the quiet truce forming in the back seat of a black car.
Meanwhile,
From the top floor of the Milwaukee Tower, the city looked small—streets like veins of light pulsing through a concrete body he had built and controlled. But control felt like a myth tonight.
Ryan Varun Milwaukee leaned against the glass wall of his office, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, untouched. The room smelled of cedar, smoke, and the faint trace of rain drifting in from the open terrace door.
He had built this empire brick by ruthless brick. Every alliance, every territory, every whispered deal in the dark bore his signature. Yet the same hands that could sign death warrants trembled slightly now—because of her.
"Milan Vanquez."
Even saying her name in his mind carried danger. It was memory disguised as punishment. As he gaze down to the city below him, his thoughts went back to the first day he ever laid eyes on her.
He saw her again as she had been in the beginning—long before the betrayals, before the weight of their surnames crushed the tenderness out of them.
The girl who wore red silk and spoke like she already owned the world.
The woman who once sat on this very desk, laughing, feeding him stolen strawberries in the middle of a negotiation.
He had loved her then, truly. And he had destroyed her just the same way.
When Dira had reappeared—who happens to be his childhood friend, old friend, old flame, a piece of his past that whispered loyalty—he had told himself he was protecting Milan by keeping her out of the darker folds of his war. It was a lie! He had wanted power clean of doubt, clean of weakness, and Milan had always been his weakness.
The fallout was merciless. Her eyes that night—the exact shade of storm over the sea—had broken him long before she ever walked away.
And now she was back....
Back in his city, walking those same streets with his son..."Liam."
A knock came at the door. Interrupting his thoughts.
Ryan turned slightly. "Enter."
It was Kelvin, his second-in-command, crisp in his suit and fatigue in his eyes.
"We've traced yesterday's breach," Kelvin said. "Someone bypassed three firewalls and shut down your vehicle remotely. It wasn't a professional job, but—clean. Smart."
Ryan's jaw shifted. "And?"
"It came from a public network near the airport. No fixed ID."
Kelvin hesitated. "Sir, whoever did it knew your personal encryption pattern."
Ryan's gaze drifted to the city again. Of course he did.
He didn't need evidence. He already knew who it was.
"Leave it," he said quietly.
Kelvin blinked bemused. "Sir?"
"I said, leave it. Close the file." he ordered
"But..." Antonio uttered only to be cut short.
"That's an order." Ryan commanded
Kelvin nodded stiffly and left, the echo of his footsteps fading into the marble corridor.
Ryan stayed still for a long time. Then he smile for a split seconds, bitter and proud all at once.
So the boy had her intelligence. Her precision. Her quiet defiance. He poured the whiskey into the sink and set the glass down too hard, the sound sharp enough to cut through his thoughts.
He walked out onto the terrace, the wind blowing hard against his skin. The city roared faintly below—sirens, laughter, a world that didn't know the ghosts ruling over it.
He closed his eyes. It was easier to think in fragments; The way Milan used to hum when she worked beside him late at night. How her hand fit against his neck when she kissed him after arguments that shook walls.
The night she left. The silence after.
He had been the cause of all of it.
He didn't deserve forgiveness; he knew that. The empire they had tried to build together—his greed had poisoned it first.
He remembered her final words before she walked away; "You win, Ryan. But what you're left with won't love you back."
For years, he had told himself he didn't care. That love was a liability. That Milan had chosen pride over partnership.
But seeing her again—beautiful, untouchable, her expression engraved deeply into his heart —he finally saw what he'd done.
He hadn't lost her to betrayal. He had driven her away.
He took a cigarette and lit it watching the smoke curl upward.
He could pretend he had gmoved on. He could call Dira and distract himself with the comfort of loyalty and the language of business. But the moment he saw that little boy's face in the street—a face carrying both his past and his consequence—he knew pretending was over.
"Liam." He muttered the name under his breath like confession.
The child Milan had hidden from him, protected from him. Seven years he had been a father without knowing. Seven years she'd carried that secret, raised his blood without his name.
He couldn't blame her. But he wouldn't stay away either..He crushed the cigarette under his heel and straightened, the decision already carved in stone.
He would find a way to be in Liam's life. No threats, no bribes—something cleaner, even if it cost him more than money. He would prove to Milan that he wasn't the same man who betrayed her. Or perhaps he would simply remind her that he was still the man she once couldn't stop loving.
By the time he returned to his desk, the sky was fading from silver to black. He opened a secure file—Project Reclaim—a quiet initiative he had abandoned years ago. It had started as a contingency plan for merging the Vanquez and Milwaukee networks.
Now, it would be his bridge back to them.
He began typing commands, rewriting access keys, diverting funds discreetly toward charitable fronts that bore no resemblance to his empire. If Milan was watching—and she would be—she'd see the movements and recognize the signature: Ryan Varun never hid his intent when he wanted someone to notice.
She would understand the message....He wasn't coming for her empire.
He was coming for his son.
Later that night, he stood before the old piano in the corner of his suite. It hadn't been touched in years. He pressed one key; the sound came out soft and uneven, like something waking from sleep.
Milan had loved this piano. She used to play this whenever he came home from long negotiations—sometimes just a few notes before she'd laugh and pull him close.
He sat and let his fingers rest on the keys.
"I'm sorry," he murmured into the empty room.
It wasn't a plea. It wasn't weakness.
It was the truth finally spoken aloud.
If she could hear him now, she would probably smile that dangerous, knowing smile and say he was years too late. Maybe he was. But time didn't erase blood, and Liam was proof of that.
The melody he played was broken, imperfect—something between mourning and hope.
When the last note faded, Ryan rose and crossed to his desk once more. He picked up his phone, scrolled through his encrypted contact list, and tapped a name he hadn't used in years.
"Get me everything on Milan Vanquez's movements," he said quietly.
"No interference. Just eyes."
A pause on the other end.
"Understood, sir." kelvin want.to test me.
He ended the call and looked back out at the city—the empire that suddenly felt smaller.
For the first time in years, Ryan didn't feel like a king. He felt like a man standing at the edge of something he might never regain—but would risk everything to touch again.
"Liam," he said softly to the night. "You'll know me soon. One way or another."
And somewhere beneath the sound of distant thunder, he almost thought he heard the echo of Milan's laughter—the memory of what power once sounded like when love still lived inside it.