Chapter 5

Luka’s POV

The past seven years had been tough. That’s probably the simplest way to put it—tough.

But the truth?

They had been soul-sucking.

It was easier when Valeria was still around—easier to be angry, to lash out, to have a target for all the pain and bitterness churning in my chest. She was always there, her face a constant reminder of everything I’d lost. Every breath she took under my roof had felt like an insult, a reminder of Isis, of betrayal, of murder. I poured my hatred into her like it was the only way I could survive.

But eventually… I couldn’t take it anymore.

Looking at her every day, breathing the same air, hearing her voice—it got to a point where I didn’t trust myself. I was going to cross a line. A permanent one.

So I let her go.

I handed her divorce papers, told her I never wanted to see her face again, and kicked her out of my life.

I thought it would make me feel better. That once she was gone, I’d finally have peace. But the reality?

It didn’t fix anything.

The rage didn’t go away. The emptiness didn’t disappear.

Sometimes—when the office went quiet, when the meetings ended, when I was alone with nothing but the buzz of the city outside my window—my thoughts would drift back to her.

Valeria.

And every time they did, I felt the heat rise in my chest. Rage. Frustration. Hurt.

I hated that I still thought about her. I hated that she still had a place in my mind, even if it was buried under layers of resentment.

I hoped life had hit her hard. I hoped karma had finally caught up to her and dragged her into the mud where she belonged.

Where I was too.

Because whether I wanted to admit it or not, I wasn’t doing much better.

In the last seven years, I had become a ghost. A walking shell of the man I used to be. I poured myself into work, drowning in deals, deadlines, boardroom politics. I practically lived in the office. I only went home when absolutely necessary—and even then, I couldn’t breathe.

The house felt cursed. Like her spirit still lingered in the halls.

I thought about selling it, more than once. Listing it, tearing it down, turning it into a pile of rubble. But I couldn’t. It had been in the Thorne family for generations, and my mother would have skinned me alive if I’d even brought up the idea.

And despite everything, I still had some shred of loyalty to the family name.

So instead, I stayed away. I became a permanent fixture at my company. A corporate slave with a title.

Occasionally, I’d hit the bar. Meet someone. Take her back. Pretend for a night that I wasn’t miserable.

But it never lasted.

The alcohol wore off. The women left. And I was still just… me. Alone. Bitter. Hollow.

Ten years ago, I had taken revenge. I had forced Valeria into a cold, loveless marriage, just like she deserved. I had punished her for taking Isis away from me. I had won.

So why the hell didn’t it feel like a victory?

Why did I wake up every morning dreading the day?

Why did success taste so empty?

I was thirty-two now. By all accounts, I was one of the most influential businessmen in the city. My face was plastered on magazine covers, quoted in financial blogs, gossiped about in Forbes circles. People envied me. Men wanted to be me.

And yet, I couldn’t remember the last time I felt something close to joy.

Coffee kept me awake. Work kept me sane. And my office chair had practically become my bed.

Even my mother had started commenting on how much I’d aged.

“You look older than your father did at forty,” she said just last week. “This isn’t what life is supposed to be, Luka.”

And I knew she was right. But what was I supposed to do? Go on a retreat and find myself?

I didn’t believe in healing. I didn’t believe in moving on.

I didn’t believe in love anymore.

Isis had been the only woman I ever truly loved. And Valeria… Valeria had made sure to ruin even the memory of that.

Marriage was a joke now. Just a trap in fine packaging. If my mother kept nagging about grandchildren, I’d get her a damn puppy and call it even.

That was the exact thought in my head as I stepped out of the car and walked toward the towering glass building where the Ashton Foundation’s charity ball was being held.

Giant banners and decorative lights wrapped around the columns outside, photographers loitering near the velvet ropes. Men in tuxedos. Women in sequined gowns. The whole thing felt like a circus.

I adjusted my cufflinks, plastered on my signature expressionless look, and walked in.

The only reason I was here was because my mother was close friends with the foundation’s owner. Our family had pledged a generous donation—enough to get our name plastered on a commemorative plaque and earn me a few handshakes from smug billionaires.

Social events weren’t my thing. I preferred boardrooms and negotiation tables. Not champagne toasts and fake smiles.

Still, I did the rounds. Said hello to a few key people. Nodded through some empty conversations.

Then I made a beeline for the open bar.

The plan was simple: have a drink, hang around for a bit, make sure my presence was noticed, then get the hell out and head back to the office.

I slid into a stool and tapped the counter.

“Mocktail,” I told the bartender. “No alcohol. I’m working after this.”

He nodded, blending fruit and ice while I stared off into the crowd.

Same people. Same egos. Same pretentious smiles. My brain began to zone out as I took the first sip of the drink and let it dull the buzz around me.

It was just another empty night. Another charity function. Another reminder that I was living in the echo of a life I no longer cared for.

And then I heard it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to our next honoree—Miss Valeria Daelmont, recipient of this year’s Ashton Humanitarian Impact Award for her work with displaced and disabled children across the Pacific.”

My grip on the glass faltered.

What?

My head snapped up so fast my neck cracked.

Valeria?

The name rang through my skull like a siren.

I turned toward the stage—and there she was.

Walking up like she belonged here. In a gold dress, of all things. Looking calm. Poised. Respected.

The applause echoed around the room, and I just sat there in stunned silence.

So the witch was back.

After all these years of silence, all these years of wondering if karma had chewed her up and spat her out… here she was. Smiling. Being celebrated.

The murderer was getting an award. For helping children, no less.

The whole thing felt like a sick joke.

I narrowed my eyes, watching her move across the stage like she owned it. Where the hell had she been hiding all this time?

I lifted my glass to take another sip, needing the cold to snap me out of this—

But I didn’t get to drink it.

Because something else happened.

Something that made my blood run cold.

A little boy—no older than six—ran up the steps to the stage.

And I froze.

Not because kids never did that at public events. But because the moment I saw his face… my breath caught in my throat.

It was me.

That boy… he looked exactly like me when I was his age. Same bone structure. Same jaw. Same mouth. Same—

Eyes.

No. Not mine.

Bright blue.

Just like Valeria’s. And blonde hair too.

I stared, stunned, every cell in my body going still.

She turned and caught him, pulling him close with ease. She smiled at him and ran a hand over his hair.

Everything inside me snapped.

I stood up so fast my stool toppled over.

That’s my son. There was no doubt about it.

That little boy was mine.

Valeria Daelmont had my child.

And she had kept him hidden from me for seven years.

How dare she?!