Elias Thorne had spent five years perfecting the mask of the ruthless CEO. He controlled markets, crushed rivals, and never, ever showed weakness. But in the suffocating silence of the terminal, that mask didn't just crack—it shattered into a thousand useless pieces.
He wasn't seeing Kaelen Vance, the woman he'd driven away. He was seeing his future, his salvation, his everything, finally returned. The sheer, overwhelming relief of seeing her alive, well, and more beautiful than the memory that haunted his dreams, was nearly enough to drop him to his knees. He'd rehearsed this moment a hundred times: the grand gesture, the groveling, the promise of a life rebuilt. He'd even swallowed his pride and chosen the corny, over-the-top banner to prove how much he didn't care about public opinion anymore.
He'd taken a step forward, the ridiculous bouquet of ninety-nine crimson roses trembling in his hand, a triumphant, desperate smile plastered across his face.
She's mine. I can fix this.
Then, he saw them.
The smile froze, then dissolved into a horrified, visceral shock that drained the blood from his head.
Two tiny figures. Two sets of miniature hands gripping Kaelen's trousers. Two perfectly formed faces staring up at him, wide-eyed and curious. And the hair—that impossible, unmistakable streak of silver-blond running through the dark hair of each twin.
Elias knew that hair. It was a recessive, highly rare trait only seen on the Thorne side of the family, skipping generations, an unwelcome complication in his pristine family line. He had that streak. His grandfather had that streak.
They were his. No doubt, no argument, no possible defense. Those were his sons.
The world, which had been perfectly centered on Kaelen, suddenly spun into a violent vortex. Five years. She had left pregnant, alone, and he hadn't known. The betrayal he'd inflicted on her was nothing compared to the monumental, unforgivable sin of abandoning his own flesh and blood. Abandoning them.
Before Elias could process the crushing guilt, his CEO instincts kicked in, honed by years of cutting down threats. He registered two things instantly:
The sheer, terrifying possessiveness in Kaelen's dark eyes. It was a warning, sharp and absolute.
The man standing like a shadow behind Kaelen.
Alpha Rhys Alden. Elias recognized him instantly. Rhys was a competitor, the head of a fast-rising rival firm, known for his relentless, non-negotiable protection of his interests. Rhys was six-feet-four inches of contained danger, his tailored jacket straining over shoulders that were built for intimidation. His presence radiated a chilling, silent ownership that settled over Kaelen and the boys like a mantle.
The twins weren't just Kaelen's secret—they were Rhys's protected territory.
Rhys took one deliberate step, his eyes locking onto Elias's. It was a silent, lethal declaration. You move, you die.
Elias ignored the threat. He had to speak. He had to claim them. He let the ridiculous banner fall, the cheap plastic clattering uselessly on the marble floor. The ninety-nine roses, symbols of his long-planned romantic redemption, felt like a pathetic weight.
He found his voice, a rough, ragged sound that cracked the silence.
"Kaelen."
She didn't flinch. She simply tightened her grip on the boys, pulling them tighter into her body, shielding them from his sight. It was the most painful, rejecting gesture he had ever witnessed.
"Get out of my way, Elias," she said, her voice low and steady, laced with a contempt that tasted like ash in his mouth.
"They're—" He couldn't finish the sentence. He couldn't scream 'They're my sons!' in front of a terminal full of strangers and the cold-eyed rival who had replaced him.
Rhys answered the unspoken question for her. "They're hers, Thorne. And they're under my protection. You lost your chance five years ago."
The public confrontation was exactly what Elias had intended, but not like this. He'd planned to look like the romantic prodigal; he currently looked like a discarded madman harassing a single mother.
Elias dropped the roses, the vibrant crimson scattering over the white floor. The scent of them, sickly sweet and meaningless, filled the air. He lowered himself slightly, trying to meet Kaelen's eyes, trying to bypass the human fortress beside her.
"Please, Kaelen," he pleaded, the desperation raw and exposed. "I need to talk to you. I need to know their names."
Rhys moved. Before Kaelen could reply, the rival Alpha placed a massive, authoritative hand on the small of her back. The touch was possessive, gentle, and utterly damning.
"We're leaving," Rhys commanded, pulling Kaelen and the twins smoothly into motion. He didn't look back at Elias.
Elias felt the panic rise, cold and absolute. He couldn't let them walk away. Not again. Not with his sons. Five years of regret culminated in one wild, reckless burst of action. He lunged forward, not toward Kaelen, but toward the closest twin—the quiet, intense one.
"Silas!" Elias shouted, remembering the name of his own grandfather's brother, a desperate guess that felt like instinct. "I know your name!"
Both twins stopped dead. Kaelen stiffened. And Rhys, the protective Alpha, finally turned, his face a chilling promise of violence. Elias knew that in two seconds, he would be slammed to the ground. But he had their attention.
The game is on.