LOGINThe apartment smelled like strawberries.Sweet. Light. Familiar.Aira stood in the small kitchen, slicing them carefully on a wooden board while soft morning light filtered through the window. The sun always hit this part of the apartment first, warming the counter, catching the edges of glass jars, making everything feel calmer than it actually was.It was one of the few quiet moments she allowed herself.Before the day began.Before responsibilities returned.Before the world asked anything of her.She exhaled softly, steadying into the rhythm of something simple.Then—Small footsteps.Soft. Uncoordinated. Determined.“Mama.”Aira turned immediately, the shift in her expression instinctive.“There you are.”Zayn stood at the edge of the hallway, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, his hair a soft, tangled mess from sleep. His shirt was slightly twisted, one sleeve slipping down his shoulder, and for a second he just stood there, blinking like he was still halfway inside a d
The ballroom was full. Crystal chandeliers reflected golden light across polished marble floors, and the quiet hum of conversation filled the air. Wealthy donors, executives, and political figures mingled comfortably, glasses of champagne in their hands. Lucien hated events like this. Not because he disliked people. But because everything about nights like this felt staged. Carefully rehearsed smiles. Strategic conversations. Polite lies dressed as compliments. He stood near one of the tall windows overlooking the city, his posture relaxed but his expression distant. And beside him— Selene. She looked exactly the way the room expected her to. Elegant black dress. Soft curls resting over one shoulder. Perfect makeup. Perfect smile. She had spent the entire evening at Lucien’s side, her hand resting lightly on his arm whenever someone approached them. Like she belonged there. Like she had always belonged there. “Lucien Carter.” Lucien turned as an older m
Aira didn’t think about Lucien. At least, that was the lie she told herself most often. Life had been too full lately for unnecessary memories. Her work alone could swallow entire days. The maternal health initiative she had joined in California had expanded rapidly over the past year, pulling her into field visits, data analysis, community meetings, and policy discussions that stretched late into the night. She liked it that way. Work gave her structure. Purpose. Distance. The research center buzzed with activity that afternoon as Aira reviewed reports in her office. A soft knock sounded on the doorframe. “Still buried in statistics?” Adrian asked. She glanced up from her laptop. “You say that like statistics are boring.” “They are.” “They’re not.” He stepped inside anyway, holding two coffee cups. “I brought a peace offering.” Aira took the cup from him, raising an eyebrow. “You’re bribing me to take a break.” “I’m encouraging work-life bala
Lucien hated hospitals. Not because of fear. Because of the waiting. The kind of waiting that made time stretch in uncomfortable ways. Selene sat beside him in the small clinic waiting room, scrolling idly through her phone while soft instrumental music played overhead. The place smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender air freshener. Lucien leaned back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. “You could have taken a home test,” he said after a moment. Selene looked up. “I know,” she replied gently. “But I thought it would be better to confirm properly.” Lucien didn’t respond. His gaze moved across the room instead, landing briefly on a young couple sitting across from them. The woman was visibly pregnant, her husband holding her hand while whispering something that made her laugh. Lucien looked away. He didn’t know what he was supposed to feel. Responsibility, obviously. That part was automatic. But the rest… the emotional part… felt strangely
Three weeks was not a long time. At least that was what Aira kept telling herself. Three weeks was nothing in the grand scale of things. Projects she worked on lasted years. Research trials stretched even longer. People rebuilt entire lives in less time than that. So three weeks shouldn’t matter. And yet it did. The afternoon sun poured through the tall windows of the research center in Oakland, casting long rectangles of light across the conference table. Aira stood at the head of it, one hand resting lightly on her laptop as she spoke, the soft click of slides changing every few seconds. “…and if we extend follow-up visits beyond the standard six weeks, we’ll catch nearly thirty percent more postpartum complications,” she explained. “Especially in communities where access to care is inconsistent.” Around the table, the other researchers listened closely, some nodding as they jotted notes. Aira kept her tone steady and professional, the way she always did when present
Lucien didn’t call Selene immediately after leaving the parking lot. He drove for nearly an hour first. No destination in mind. Just movement. The kind that feels productive but isn’t. He told himself he wasn’t running from anything. He simply needed distance—from the image of Aira laughing, from the man beside her, from the quiet realization that her life had continued without his permission. By the time he parked outside his hotel again, the silence inside him felt heavier than before. He unlocked his phone and stared at Selene’s name. It wasn’t longing that made him press call. It was familiarity. She answered quickly. “Lucien.” Her voice hadn’t changed. Smooth. Controlled. Aware. “I didn’t expect you to pick up,” he said. “I always pick up when you call.” That should have unsettled him. Instead, it steadied something fragile in his chest. “I’m in town,” he said. There was a brief pause—not surprise, but confirmation. “Of course you are,” she rep







