The first thing Ethan did when he arrived at the office was lock the door.
Not metaphorically.
Physically.
His assistant paused outside, hand still hovering near the handle, confused by the sudden barrier.
"Hold all calls," Ethan said through the door. "Unless the building is on fire."
"Yes, Mr. Yan."
The silence that followed was deliberate.
Ethan sat at his desk, opened his laptop, and pulled up a blank document. No reports. No summaries. Just an empty page waiting to be filled.
He typed one line.
Five years ago.
He stared at it for a long moment.
People lied in words.
Dates rarely did.
He began listing facts—only what could be verified.
Sophia left the country: early spring, five years ago.
Legal name change filed overseas: three months later.
Medical clinic records: sealed, partial access denied.
Children's birthdates: five years ago, late winter.
Ethan stopped typing.
Late winter.
He leaned back slowly, fingers steepled, eyes narrowing.
That window was uncomfortably precise.
Too precise to be coincidence.
He didn't jump to conclusions. He never did. That was how amateurs ruined good cases.
Instead, he reached for his phone.
"Daniel," he said when the call connected, "I need you to do something quietly."
"Anything."
"I want flight logs, clinic affiliations, and visa records from five years ago," Ethan said. "Start with Sophia. Cross-reference with any private hospitals connected to offshore registrations."
Daniel hesitated.
"That level of access—"
"I know," Ethan interrupted. "That's why I'm asking you."
There was a pause, then a quiet exhale.
"Understood," Daniel said. "I'll move carefully."
"Good," Ethan replied. "Because if I'm right, someone else is already doing the math."
He ended the call.
At the Shi residence, someone else was indeed doing exactly that.
Margaret sat at her dressing table, a thin folder open in front of her. Inside were printed screenshots, social media archives, and old press releases—pieces of a life Sophia had tried very hard to erase.
"Five years," Margaret murmured.
She tapped her manicured finger against the edge of the table, her expression unreadable.
Irene stood nearby, pretending to scroll through her phone, though she hadn't absorbed a single word on the screen.
"Mom," Irene said carefully, "you're overthinking this."
Margaret looked up.
"Am I?"
"She could have adopted," Irene continued. "Or used a donor. Or—"
Margaret's eyes sharpened.
"Or," she said slowly, "she could have hidden."
Irene's grip tightened around her phone.
"You think the children—"
"I think," Margaret cut in, "that the timing is inconvenient."
She flipped to another page.
"A sealed clinic. Overseas. Private registration. No father listed."
She closed the folder.
"That doesn't scream 'clean break' to me."
Irene swallowed.
"You're saying—"
"I'm saying," Margaret replied coolly, "that if those children are who I think they are, this situation just became dangerous."
"For who?" Irene asked.
Margaret met her daughter's gaze.
"For everyone."
Sophia felt it before she understood it.
That unease—the kind that settled low in the spine, warning her that the balance she had worked so hard to maintain was beginning to tilt.
She stood in the kitchen that afternoon, cutting fruit for the children, when Mrs. Collins approached quietly.
"Mrs. Yan," she said, "there was a delivery."
Sophia looked up.
"A delivery?"
Mrs. Collins handed her a slim envelope. No return address. No courier stamp she recognized.
Sophia's heart skipped.
"Did anyone see who brought it?"
Mrs. Collins shook her head. "It was left at the gate."
Sophia hesitated, then opened it.
Inside was a single piece of paper.
A printed calendar page.
A date circled in red.
Five years ago.
Sophia's breath caught.
She stared at it, her fingers trembling as memory surged forward—bright lights, sterile walls, pain she had swallowed without sound.
She folded the paper quickly and slipped it into her pocket just as small footsteps echoed behind her.
"Mama?"
Sophia turned, forcing a smile.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
Leo stood there, eyes bright, unaware of the shift happening around him.
"Are we going outside today?" he asked.
Sophia crouched down, brushing his hair back gently.
"Not today," she said softly. "We'll stay home."
Leo frowned. "Why?"
Because someone remembered, she thought.
"Because," she said aloud, "today is a quiet day."
That evening, Ethan returned earlier than expected.
He found Sophia sitting in the living room, the children asleep upstairs, the house unusually still.
"You're home early," she said.
"So are you," he replied, noting the way her shoulders tensed.
He didn't ask what was wrong.
Instead, he sat across from her.
"Someone contacted you today," he said calmly. "Not my people."
Sophia's eyes flickered.
"Yes."
"What did they want?"
She considered lying.
She didn't.
"They reminded me," she said quietly, "that time doesn't stay buried."
Ethan studied her face.
"Did they threaten you?"
"No," Sophia replied. "Not directly."
That was worse.
Ethan leaned forward.
"Sophia," he said, his voice lower now, "there's something you need to understand. Once people start calculating dates, they don't stop until the numbers make sense."
She met his gaze.
"I know," she said.
"Then tell me," Ethan continued, "how close I am to the truth."
Silence stretched between them.
Sophia stood.
"I can't," she said. "Not yet."
Ethan watched her for a long moment, then nodded.
"Fine," he said. "But from now on, you don't make decisions alone."
"That's not your choice," Sophia replied.
"No," Ethan said evenly. "But it is my responsibility."
She turned back, eyes sharp.
"To whom?"
"To the children," he answered.
The words landed hard.
Sophia's composure cracked—just slightly.
Later that night, after the house had gone quiet, Sophia stood by the window, phone in hand.
She typed a message she had hoped never to send.
They're starting to ask questions.
The reply came almost immediately.
Then it's already late.
Sophia closed her eyes.
Down the hall, unseen, Ethan stood outside the children's room, listening to their breathing just as she had.
The math had begun.
And once numbers aligned, secrets rarely survived.