It had been a hell of a day.

Siena Marell’s back ached. Six hours of back-to-back lectures had fried her brain. Add period cramps, and she was one bad moment away from crying into a bag of discount snacks.

The only thing she wanted was to crawl into bed, curl up with a hot water bottle, and cry over lecture slides that made no sense.

Her auburn hair was tied into a messy bun, strands falling over tired brown eyes. Freckles dusted her cheeks, barely noticeable beneath the dull glow of the setting sun. In her worn jeans and oversized cream sweater, she looked like every other overworked grad student—except she didn’t feel like one. Not today.

She took the longer route home to avoid the crowded bus stop near campus. A mistake, as it turned out. The gravel path near the park scraped at her flats. Children’s laughter echoed across the playground. Mothers sipped iced lattes on benches, comparing nap times and tantrums.

Siena kept her eyes forward. She didn’t hate kids, exactly. But she didn’t want them near her. Not after everything.

She quickened her steps. Almost there.

Then it happened.

A small blur darted out from behind the swings and ran straight into her.

Two arms wrapped around her legs.

“Mommy!”

She froze.

Her heart stopped.

Looking down, she saw a tiny boy—maybe five years old—clinging to her like a lifeline. His hair was dark, a bit messy, his cheeks red from crying or running or both. His big brown eyes blinked up at her, wide and wet.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

Her mouth parted.

No words came out.

Her stomach knotted. Something about his face twisted a thread inside her. He clutched the hem of her blouse, fingers trembling.

A sudden flicker shot through her head.

Beeping.

Cold air.

A scream—sharp, small, and close to her ear.

She blinked. The sound was gone.

Memory?

No. That wasn’t possible.

Siena gently pried the boy’s hands from her clothes. “You’ve got the wrong person, sweetheart. I’m not your mom.”

His lip quivered.

She stepped back. “I said I’m not your mom.” Firmer this time.

Still, the boy didn’t move.

He just stared.

Something cracked.

Not in him—in her.

The kind of crack you didn’t notice until it echoed.

She turned and walked away.

Behind her, she heard the sobs.

They followed her all the way out of the park.

She didn’t stop.

Her cramps were killing her. Her brain was fogged. She didn’t have the capacity to process someone else’s mistake, especially one shaped like a five-year-old child calling her Mommy.

By the time she reached her building, her jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. She slammed the apartment door shut and locked it behind her. Her tiny flat smelled faintly of instant noodles and lavender oil. She dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and collapsed on the couch.

Her phone buzzed.

She ignored it.

Then buzzed again.

She sighed and glanced at the screen.

> Liam: You alive? Or did a textbook fall on you again?

She almost smiled. Almost.

She didn’t reply.

She pulled her blanket over her head and closed her eyes.

That boy’s voice still echoed in her ears.

Mommy.

She had never been anyone’s mother. Never wanted to be. She couldn’t remember ever holding a baby, let alone giving birth to one.

But that flicker in her head—the hospital noise, the scream—it wasn’t new.

It had visited her in dreams.

White lights. Blood. Nurses shouting.

A cry.

Always the cry.

Her therapist called them stress flashbacks. Said it was her mind’s way of processing trauma. But trauma from what? A year of her life was a blank space. Her records said she had dropped out for medical reasons, but she didn’t remember the diagnosis.

Just the dreams.

And the cold.

Another knock jolted her.

She sat up, startled.

Checked the time. 8:12 p.m.

No one she knew came over unannounced.

She tiptoed to the door and peered through the peephole.

Empty hallway.

No movement.

She waited. Held her breath.

Nothing.

She stepped back and leaned against the door.

That kid.

He called her Mommy, like it meant something.

Like she was someone worth remembering.

She took a breath and turned away from the door.

Tomorrow, she’d forget.

Tomorrow, she’d go to class, turn in her draft, and pretend she wasn’t haunted by a stranger’s voice calling her “Mommy.”

But deep down, she knew better.

Because fate had a habit of circling back when you least expected it.

And today, it had started again.

With a child’s voice.

And a name she didn’t remember answering to.

The front gates groaned open.

The driver didn’t wait. As soon as the wheels hit the gravel driveway, the black SUV surged forward, its tires crunching over stone as it curved toward the grand marble staircase of the Dela Vega estate. Towering white columns lined the entrance, catching the dying light of the late afternoon.

Before the engine even finished sighing, the rear door flew open.

A pair of tiny legs hit the ground.

Damien bolted.

He darted through the wide foyer, past the housekeeper’s outstretched hands, and up the sweeping staircase two steps at a time. His black school shoes slapped loudly against the marble, blazer slipping off one narrow shoulder.

Tears clung stubbornly to his lashes, and a sob caught in his throat. His mop of dark curls bounced with every step, his round cheeks flushed red. He was small for five—slender and pale, with eyes too big for his face and a heart too easy to bruise. Sensitive. Expressive. Always leading with emotion.

Lucien Dela Vega heard the footsteps before he saw them.

He was seated in his private study, a whiskey glass resting on a thick file. The fire flickered low beside him, casting slow-moving shadows across shelves lined with first editions and gleaming hunting rifles.

He raised his eyes slowly as the doors burst open.

“Damien.”

The boy stopped just past the threshold, panting, shoulders trembling, fists curled tightly at his sides.

Lucien stood up. Every inch of his tall, imposing frame unfolded with quiet authority. He wore a charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms. A silver chain glinted at the hollow of his throat. His black hair was neatly combed back, his jaw sharp and set in unreadable calm. His presence filled the room long before he spoke.

He walked around the desk and knelt in front of his son.

“Look at me.”

Damien raised his head. His lower lip trembled, but he met his father’s gaze.

“She said I’m not her son.”

Lucien’s jaw flexed. But his voice remained even.

“Did she hurt you?”

Damien shook his head.

“Did she yell? Push you? Curse at you?”

“No,” he whispered. “She just... walked away.”

Lucien nodded once. That was enough.

He placed a hand on Damien’s shoulder. “Go change. Nora made your favorites for dinner.”

Damien hesitated. Then he nodded and turned away, his small frame still stiff with confusion.

Lucien waited until the boy’s footsteps faded.

Then he turned, walked to the fireplace, and poured the rest of his whiskey into the flames.

The fire hissed.

He crossed to the far side of the room and pressed a button hidden behind an oil painting—an old ship battling stormy waves. A soft mechanical click echoed. A concealed cabinet slid open, revealing sleek black weapons and a drawer locked by fingerprint.

He ignored the weapons.

Instead, he pulled out a tablet and tapped the security icon.

The screen flickered to life.

Dots blinked across a city map. He zoomed in on the park. Rewound.

There.

The bench. The walking path. The moment Damien stopped in front of her.

Lucien leaned forward.

She turned—Siena.

The pause in her stride. The faint alarm in her face.

She hadn’t screamed.

She hadn’t pushed him away.

Her lips had moved. He read them with ease.

“Wrong person, kid.”

But her eyes told a different story.

Lucien narrowed his gaze. Her expression—confused, shaken, yet strangely... moved. Then her hand, mid-motion, reached halfway toward Damien before she caught herself and pulled back.

A small, instinctive gesture.

One he remembered.

He opened another image on the tablet—a photo from the hospital. Siena, pale and exhausted, cradling a newborn. Her hand hovering, unsure but drawn forward. As if the baby would vanish if she touched him.

The same gesture.

He tapped the screen.

The image froze.

His voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s her.”

He pressed the intercom. “Marco.”

Seconds later, Marco entered. Tall, lean, and military-grade serious. Tailored grey suit. Buzzcut. A permanent five-o’clock shadow and a habit of chewing pen caps like he didn’t realize he was doing it. His eyes, always moving, always reading the room.

“Sir.”

Lucien didn’t glance away from the screen. “Find her.”

“Name?”

“Siena.”

“Any identification?”

“I said find her.”

Marco nodded once and left. He didn’t need more. He had worked for Lucien long enough to know what that tone meant.

Lucien leaned against the edge of the desk, fingers tightening on the wood.

And then the memory returned.

White lights. The smell of bleach. Machines beeping. A pale face. A nurse whispering, “She may not survive the night.”

Her hand, cold and still, had twitched once in his grasp. Just once.

Then nothing.

No records.

No grave.

Only silence.

Until today.

Lucien opened the drawer and placed the tablet inside. Closed it softly.

He walked to the tall window, overlooking the city’s glittering skyline.

Lit a cigarette.

The glow illuminated the lines carved deep into his features.

“Siena,” he said under his breath.

The name burned in his chest.

Behind him, the phone buzzed.

A message.

Unknown Number: We found her.

He typed without hesitation.

Lucien: Do not approach.

Unknown Number: Understood.

He set the phone down and exhaled, smoke curling in thin spirals above him.

The past had come knocking.

This time, he would open the door.

And Siena?

She wouldn’t be walking away.

Not again.

Siena lay on her couch, half-buried under a blanket, the hum of the city muffled by the shut windows. Her body was heavy, like it had absorbed all the stress of the day and refused to let go. The boy’s voice still echoed in her head.

Mommy.

That one word had turned her insides upside down.

She closed her eyes and pressed her palm to her forehead. Maybe she should have knelt, asked the kid where his actual mother was, taken him to the park bench where the other moms sat. But at the time, it had felt like she was the one being ambushed.

She had handled it. She walked away.

But something about those teary brown eyes stuck in her mind like gum on the sole of a shoe. A kid crying because she rejected him—yeah, it didn’t sit right.

Siena exhaled and sat up. She grabbed her laptop from the side table and opened it. Thesis deadline in six days. She stared at the blinking cursor. It stared back. Nothing came.

She rubbed her temples. Her thoughts kept circling back to the park.

Had someone picked him up by now? Where was his actual mother?

Her stomach growled.

She shut the laptop and shuffled to the kitchen. Instant noodles. Again. She filled a pot with water and stared at it on the stove.

The kettle clicked on by reflex. She didn’t even remember pressing it.

Outside, a streetlamp flickered. The air felt heavier than usual.

Somewhere across the road, inside a sleek black car with tinted windows, a figure sat quietly, watching.

Lucien Dela Vega leaned back in the driver's seat, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel. Tall, broad-shouldered, and razor-sharp in posture, he wore a tailored black coat over a dark dress shirt. His hair was jet black, trimmed close on the sides, longer on top, and swept back like someone too precise to be careless. Under the dim light, his green eyes scanned Siena’s building with quiet intensity. His face was striking, all sharp lines and quiet menace.

The boy had stopped crying by now. He was safe. Fed. Tucked into bed by someone who knew how to soothe him.

But Lucien hadn’t stopped thinking.

He replayed the scene in his mind, over and over. The woman. Her hesitation. The way she looked at the boy before walking away.

She wasn’t a stranger.

She had hesitated. That look, it wasn’t confusion. It was recognition. Or something close.

Inside her flat, Siena took a bite of her overcooked noodles and winced. Her phone buzzed beside her.

> Liam: Just checking in. Still alive?

> Siena: Alive. Barely. Ate noodles.

> Liam: You need better coping skills.

> Siena: Tell that to my tuition fees.

She tossed her phone aside and curled back into the couch. Her cramps had dulled, but her brain still spun in circles.

She pulled her knees up and wrapped the blanket tighter around her.

She didn’t want to think about today. But her brain wouldn’t stop.

Why did that boy think she was his mother?

And why did a part of her flinch at the possibility that he could be right?

She hadn’t forgotten everything.

There were blank spaces. Foggy moments. A whole year of her life that still came back in flashes. Hospital lights. A cold hand squeezing hers. A lullaby humming in the background. And crying. Always crying.

She had chalked it up to trauma. Side effects from that night. The surgery. The blood loss. The fear.

But now?

She grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her chest.

It had been years since anyone had called her Mommy.

Because no one ever had.

Or so she thought.

A knock at the window made her flinch. Just a branch tapping the glass. She tried to laugh at herself, but her throat felt tight.

She was being paranoid. She always got this way when her body was tired and her emotions were frayed.

She checked the locks. Twice.

Then crawled back into bed.

Across the street, the car finally started. Its headlights flicked on, slicing through the night. Light spilled briefly across her apartment window, brushing the edges of her curtain, then faded as the car pulled away.

Inside the vehicle, Lucien watched until the building vanished from his rearview mirror.

She hadn’t screamed at the boy.

She hadn’t hit him.

She hadn’t even asked who he was. Only that she wasn’t his mother.

That wasn’t how strangers reacted.

It was how someone reacted when they were scared of the truth.

And Lucien knew the truth.

He just needed her to remember it.