[COLE]
The cold air in the room disappeared. The hostility. The accusations. The standoff.
All of it faded the mont he saw her, standing at the bottom of the stairs with his son cradled in her arms.
He didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
He was srized. Stunned.
His jaw clenched, not from anger—but from the overwhelming surge of emotions crashing through him like a tidal wave.
The fury and betrayal that had fueled his journey here—the rage of being shut out from her pregnancy, from their child's birth—began to crack, giving way to sothing deeper. Sothing raw.
Love.
Love for her.
Love for his son.
And beneath it all—a pulsing ache of regret.
She should have never gone through it alone. He should've been there when her cravings hit at midnight. He should've held her hand through every pain, whispered promises in her ear when fear crept in. He should've kissed her forehead when she first held their child, should've cried beside her when they heard that first wail.
But he wasn't.
He had been swallowed whole by despair, disappointnt, and the deep sting of heartbreak the mont she pushed him away.
At the ti, he convinced himself it was what she wanted—what she needed. But now, standing there as she held the child that looked exactly like him, he realized just how wrong he had been.
He should have fought for her.
He should have stayed, even when she begged him to leave.
He should have held on tighter when everything inside him scread to let go.
Regret burned through him like fire. Every second he had spent without her flashed before his eyes—empty days, sleepless nights, and the gnawing ache of wondering what if.
He had chosen pride over love, silence over action, and in doing so, he lost the two people that mattered most in his world.
He thought he was respecting her decision.
But now he knew—he should have stayed and broken down every wall she built around her heart, all over again.
He should've shown her that he wasn't leaving—no matter how hard she tried to push him away.
Because real love doesn't give up. And he wouldn't make the sa mistake again.
And now she was here. And it wasn't too late.
He could feel it in the way she looked at him. No longer a gaze of hostility or sha—but sothing uncertain, trembling with buried feelings that hadn't yet died. Her lips parted slightly, like she was about to speak—but she didn't.
Cole took a step forward.
One hand reached out, slow and tentative, as if afraid she'd vanish if he moved too quickly.
"Eve . . ." he breathed, voice barely more than a whisper.
He didn't know where to begin. He thought he had everything planned out—the words, the mories, the reasons—but the mont he saw her, everything vanished.
His mind went blank, leaving only the pounding of his heart and the overwhelming rush of emotion he could no longer contain.
"Is that . . ."
"Your son," Eve said calmly, her voice steady as she gently lifted the seven-month-old baby in her arms, revealing the small, sleepy face that mirrored Cole's features.
Cole's breath hitched. His heart forgot how to beat for a mont. His eyes locked on the child, tiny hands curled into fists, face buried against Eve's collarbone.
He didn't speak.
He couldn't.
"Eve . . . are you sure?" Dean blurted out, his brows furrowed in disbelief.
Eve nodded firmly, the baby resting peacefully in her arms. "Yes. We need to talk about this. Cole and I might not be together, but I won't let my son grow up without a father. He deserves to know him—and Cole deserves to know his son."
A hush fell over the room. Damien's jaw tensed, Dante looked away, and Dean . . . well, Dean looked like he just swallowed a lemon.
Then Evangeline stood up with elegant grace and clapped her hands once, the sound echoing through the hall like a gavel falling.
A gentle smile touched her lips—warm, but not to be defied.
"Alright," she said, eyes sweeping over them all. "Let's give them space to talk."
"But Mom—!" Dean protested, his voice a mix of panic and outrage.
Evangeline gave him one look. That one look mothers develop after decades of raising children and handling kingdoms. Sa#m@p#l!e fro&m- My V irt*u$al Li#b^rary E-m*p^i%re—r$e!ad m#o*r!e@ on M&VLE-MP%Y%&R.
Dean instantly zipped his mouth shut like a well-trained pup, slumping slightly into his coat.
"Though we're family," she continued, her voice laced with dignity and steel, "there are tis when personal matters must be handled privately. This is one of them. Eve has every right to decide for herself, and Cole . . . whether you like it or not, he is the father of her child. He has rights, too. Let them talk. We are only getting in the way."
Dean huffed, clearly not satisfied, but a stern glare from Eric—and a not-so-subtle tug on his sleeve from Damien—shut him up.
"I still don't trust him," Dante muttered, crossing his arms.
"And I still don't trust your cooking, but here we are," Evangeline quipped, raising a brow.
Damien let out a long breath and stood, adjusting his coat. As he passed Cole, he paused—his eyes eting Cole's with the weight of a warning only a protective older brother could deliver. He leaned in just enough for only Cole to hear.
"Don't make the mistake of hurting her again. If you do . . . you'll regret it."
His voice was low, calm, and terrifyingly sincere.
Then he walked out without another word.
Evangeline followed shortly after, placing a gentle hand on Eve's shoulder as she passed, offering silent support.
Eric gave a curt nod to Cole—neutral, but not unkind—and grabbed Dean and Dante by their collars.
"Let's go before Mom actually makes you cook dinner again," Eric grumbled to them as they were dragged out like grumbling schoolboys.
And then, the room was silent.
Finally, only the three of them remained: Cole, Eve, and little Bean now cooing in her arms like he hadn't just been the center of a political standoff.
Reviews
All reviews (0)