Adrian’s POV
I sat at the dining table, a stack of work docunts in front of .
The familiar sll of black coffee lingered in the air, its heat radiating through the mug in my hand. Across the room, Elliot sat on a stool by the kitchen counter, lazily spinning a spoon between his fingers.
His erald eyes, calm like mine, were half-lidded with boredom.
"You’re just going to sit there all day?" I asked, keeping my tone even.
"I’m thinking," he replied without looking up, the spoon clattering onto the counter as he let it drop.
"About what?"
"Stuff," he said, leaning back on the stool.
I exhaled sharply, setting my coffee down. "Did you finish your howork?"
"Maybe," he said, shrugging.
"Maybe isn’t an answer," I said, my gaze sharpening.
He groaned dramatically, sliding off the stool. "Fine. Geez, you’re so serious all the ti, Daddy."
I ignored the jab and watched as he pulled his notebook out of his bag and placed it on the counter. He flipped it open, spinning it around to face .
"Happy now?" he asked, crossing his arms.
I walked over, scanning the neat lines of his handwriting. It was perfect, like always. The boy didn’t miss a detail, a trait I could admire.
He was my son after all.
"It’s fine," I said, handing the notebook back to him.
"Thanks," he muttered, closing the book with a snap. "Can I go do sothing else now?"
"No," I said simply, leaning back against the counter.
His face scrunched up, his nose wrinkling. "Why not?"
"Because we’re spending ti together."
He stared at like I’d just told him to eat broccoli for the rest of his life. "Why?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Because I’m your father."
Elliot leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. "Yeah, but you’re always busy. Or on your phone. Or in your office."
"I’m here now, aren’t I?" I said, folding my arms.
"Yeah, but it’s weird," he said, tilting his head. "You’re being weird, Daddy."
I blinked, trying to process the insult. "What do you an, ’weird’?"
He shrugged casually, leaning back on the stool. "You’re not like other dads. You’re always so serious. Even when you’re not working, you look like you’re thinking about sothing boring."
I tightened my grip on the counter, my jaw clenching. "I’m not boring."
Elliot smirked, his lips twitching with amusent. "You kind of are."
Without thinking, I reached for the ladle hanging on the utensil rack, gripping it tightly as I turned toward him.
"See?" he said, pointing at . "Weird Daddy."
The ladle snapped in my hand with an audible crack.
"Can other daddy do that?"
Elliot’s eyes widened, and for a mont, the only sound in the room was the faint hum of the refrigerator.
"Oops," he said, a grin spreading across his face.
I stared at the broken utensil in my hand, debating whether to respond or ignore his smirk entirely. "Elliot."
"Yes, Daddy?" he said, his voice overly innocent.
"Go sit down."
"Yes, sir." He saluted mockingly before hopping off the stool and plopping onto the couch in the living room.
I tossed the broken ladle into the trash, pinching the bridge of my nose. How could a five-year-old test my patience more than a room full of board mbers?
Before I could collect myself, I heard the faint click of heels approaching. I looked up to see Lyra standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips, her gaze bouncing between and Elliot.
"I’m here," she said, her voice calm but curious.
"You ca," I said, straightening.
She shrugged, her expression neutral. "Of course I did. With the amount you’re paying , I don’t have a choice. Besides, I don’t like leaving work half-finished."
My eyes flicked down to her hand, catching the glint of the engagent ring she now wore openly. My chest tightened, though I kept my face unreadable. "You wore it."
Her gaze sharpened, and she crossed her arms. "What’s that supposed to an?"
"Nothing," I said flatly, turning my attention back to the counter. "Just an observation."
Before she could respond, Elliot’s voice broke the tension. "Oh."
We both looked over to see him standing near the couch, his face slightly pink as he stared at Lyra.
"Welco," he said quietly, his voice uncharacteristically shy.
Lyra’s lips twitched into a faint smile, and she stepped further into the room. "Thank you, Elliot. How are you?"
"Fine," he muttered, looking down at his feet.
"Why don’t you say it louder? She can’t hear you," I said, my tone dry.
Elliot shot a glare before turning back to Lyra. "Fine," he repeated, a bit louder this ti.
"Good," she said, her smile softening.
I watched the interaction closely, noting how easily Elliot’s usual calmness lted away in her presence. It was rare to see him act like an actual child, and I wasn’t sure if I found it amusing or concerning.
"Let’s get started," Lyra said, setting her bag down on the counter and pulling out her notebook.
"Fine," I said, moving to the table.
As she settled into the chair across from , Elliot climbed onto a stool nearby, his eyes darting between us curiously.
Lyra began asking questions for the moir, her tone professional but tinged with a sharpness I recognized all too well. I answered succinctly, my words clipped as I kept my focus on her face.
The questions were typical at first—details about my business, the challenges I faced, and my strategies for success. But as the conversation went on, the atmosphere shifted.
"Why don’t you ever smile in interviews?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.
I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. "Because there’s nothing to smile about."
"Really?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "Not even when things are going well?"
"Smiling doesn’t pay the bills," I replied, my tone dry.
She rolled her eyes, jotting sothing down in her notebook. "You add weird."
"I think I have heard enough of that in one day,," I said, Elliot chuckled.
Elliot, who had been watching quietly, cleared his throat. "Daddy doesn’t smile much at ho either."
Lyra looked at him, her expression softening. "Is that true?"
Elliot nodded, then hesitated. "But... he does sotis. Like when I beat him at chess."
"That’s because it’s rare," I said, glancing at him.
Elliot smirked, his confidence returning. "That’s because I’m better than you."
Lyra laughed softly, the sound warming the room in a way I hadn’t expected. For a mont, I let myself relax, the tension easing as Elliot continued to chatter about our chess gas.
But then Lyra shifted in her seat, and the hem of her blouse lifted slightly, revealing a bit of her cleavage.
My gaze lingered for a second too long before I forced myself to look away.
"Let’s stay focused," I said, my voice firr than intended.
Lyra’s eyes flicked to mine, her brow furrowing slightly. "Right. Where were we?"
I cleared my throat, but before I could answer, Elliot spoke again. "Why are you asking so many questions about Daddy?"
"It’s for a book," Lyra explained patiently.
"Is it a boring book?" he asked, his head tilted.
"That depends on how interesting your dad is," she said, smirking.
"Very funny," I muttered.
Elliot grinned, clearly enjoying the banter.
The questions continued, but the air between Lyra and grew more charged with every passing minute. Her gaze lingered too long, her voice softened in ways that made my stomach tighten.
Finally, when I felt the tension reach its breaking point, I turned to Elliot. "Go to your room."
He blinked, confused. "Why?"
"Because I said so," I said evenly.
"So..." I said, watching her carefully.
Lyra didn’t look up, her fingers tapping briskly on her tablet. "So what?"
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. "You’ve been avoiding ."
She snorted softly, still not eting my gaze. "Avoiding you? I’m literally sitting here, doing my job."
"Physically, yes," I said evenly. "But ntally? Emotionally? You’re miles away."
Finally, she looked up, her gray eyes narrowing. "I’m here to write a book, Adrian. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less."
"And yet," I said, my voice soft but sharp, "you keep fidgeting with that ring on your finger like it doesn’t belong there."
Her hand froze mid-motion, and I saw the flicker of annoyance in her expression before she forced it away. "Don’t."
"Don’t what?" I asked, my voice calm despite the storm brewing between us.
"Don’t do that," she snapped, setting her tablet down with a sharp clack. "Don’t act like you know what’s going on in my head."
I tilted my head slightly, my gaze locked on hers. "You think I don’t?"
"You don’t," she said firmly, leaning back in her chair. "You don’t know anymore, Adrian. Whatever you think you see, it’s not real."
"Then why are you getting so defensive?" I asked, standing and rounding the table slowly.
She stiffened, her eyes tracking my movents. "I’m not defensive. I’m just tired of your gas."
"Gas?" I repeated, stopping just a few feet from her. "I’m not the one playing gas, Lyra. You are."
She shot up from her chair, her hands clenched into fists. "What the hell is that supposed to an?"
"It ans," I said, my voice lowering, "you’re pretending. Pretending you don’t feel anything. Pretending you’ve moved on. But the way you look at , the way you react when I’m near..."
Her breath hitched, but she masked it with a laugh—sharp and bitter. "You’re delusional."
"Am I?" I took another step closer, my eyes never leaving hers. "Tell , Lyra. If I’m so wrong, why haven’t you walked out that door? Why haven’t you quit this job?"
Her lips parted, but no words ca out.
"That’s what I thought," I said softly.
She shook her head, taking a step back. "You don’t get to do this to , Adrian. Not after everything."
"Do what?" I asked, my voice dropping as I stepped closer. "Remind you of what we had? Of what you still want?"
"I don’t want you," she said, but her voice wavered, betraying her.
"Liar," I murmured, closing the distance between us.
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