Breakfast with Ash, War with His Papa

My kitchen smelled like melted butter and paranoia.

I was flipping French toast on the pan when the voice of the one kid I loved most, and who also drove me completely insane, broke through the quiet from the tablet propped up at the edge of the table.

Round cheeks, bright blue eyes, bedhead in full glory.  Alessio. Or as he now insisted everyone call him: Ash the Dinosaur.

"I already packed all my toys, Mommy! Daddy said I brought too many, but I told him they’re all important. Triceratops has to come too. He gets trauma if he’s left behind."

I nodded, scooping berries onto a plate. "Of course. I’m sure your triceratops has emotional needs that can’t be delayed."

"And the farting robot! Don’t forget that one!"

"How could I? Who am I to separate a boy from his farting robot?"

Ash laughed, then looked down for a second. "I’m happy we get to live together again. With you. And the new house. And the swimming pool. Daddy said it looks like Iron Man’s house."

I set the plate down on the table, sat, wiped my hands, and finally looked at the screen. "Iron Man’s house doesn’t have fingerprint alarms and bulletproof windows, sweetheart. This place is more like a P*******t-inspired panic bunker."

Ash didn’t care. He nodded excitedly and moved the tablet to show me his giant suitcase, already packed with toys, dinosaur books, and what looked like a nugget-shaped character pillow.

"Abuela said your house looks like a castle. But with alarms that beep if a fly goes by."

I gave a small smile. "This castle also has hidden CCTV, electric fences, and security guards paid well enough to pretend it’s normal if I scream at two in the morning."

Erick appeared behind the screen, holding a glass of milk and looking far too well-rested for someone who’d been living with Ash for over a week.

"I already promised your kid the new house is gonna be the safest place in New York," he said. "Are you sure about this, Di?"

I let out a long, slow breath. "I’ve only lived in that apartment for two weeks, Rick. But after the gala, after I woke up in the wrong bed… and after that look…"

"Zane?"

I just nodded.

He nodded back. "So you bought a house?"

"Not just a house. A fortress. A borderline compound. Three separate access points, two layers of fencing, overnight guards, and a panic button directly wired to a private investigator."

Erick raised an eyebrow. "You’re going through a billion-dollar divorce, Dianna. Not a drug war."

"What’s the difference? One ruins your life with weapons. The other does it with emails and passive-aggressive facial expressions."

Ash popped back onto the screen. "When do I move? When?"

"I already sent your tickets. You guys land tonight, right?"

"Daddy says I have to take a nap so I won’t be cranky on the plane. But I said I’m not cranky. I’m just expressive."

"Oh God," I muttered. "You’re literaly my son."

He gave me a thumbs-up. "I’ll help unpack everything, Mommy. And I’m gonna name all the rooms!"

"Just promise me you won’t name the kitchen 'The T-Rex Pen,' okay?"

Ash giggled, then started dancing in front of the camera, wearing that unfiltered joy only a three-year-old can manage.

I sat there in the kitchen I was about to leave. Again. Because one man from my past had reappeared and turned my entire life into a puzzle with no edge pieces.

But this time, I’d sworn I was going to stay in control.

And if I couldn’t? At least I had electric fences and a farting robot to help me survive.

+++++++++

I stood outside the conference room with a folder in my hand and a stomach that felt like it had been thrown into a bread mixer.

Two deep breaths. Then three. Then I bit down on my lower lip hard enough to qualify as mild self-harm.

The door was closed. Old wood with a brass plaque that read: Private Conference Room – Board Only.

Funny, considering there wasn’t a single person in that room I’d consider part of any board in my life, unless sarcasm and unresolved grudges count.

My hand hovered over the doorknob.

Then stopped.

Because I could feel it. Even before I stepped in.

That stare. Cold. Heavy. Familiar like a heartbreak song you’ve played too many times to pretend you don’t know the lyrics.

Zane Romano.

Of course he was already inside. Of course he’d come early. Like a predator who enjoys watching the prey walk into the trap on its own.

I inhaled again.

This wasn’t about me.This was about my client. About the law. About strategy. About winning. Not about what I felt. Not about the bed I shouldn’t have been in. Not about remembering the slope of his shoulder in low light.

I turned the knob.

And walked in.

The air shifted instantly. The atmosphere tightened like a violin string pulled just a little too far.

Silent. Dense.

A wide room with closed windows, one long oval table at the center.

To the far right: Amelia.

Poised, polished, wearing a beige suit and pale red lipstick that had forgotten how to smile.

To the far left…

Of course.

Zane.

Charcoal gray suit. White shirt unbuttoned just enough to look effortless. A watch on his wrist that could cover my rent for a year. His hair was shorter than the last time I… yeah.

And his eyes? Still that same storm-dark blue. The kind that didn’t just look at you...they hit.

I ignored him. Or at least, I tried to.

Because my attention was immediately pulled toward the woman sitting beside him.

Elegant. Composed. Legs crossed, posture perfect, wearing an all-black suit that screamed expensive in the most minimal way possible. And a face I’d only seen in legal journals and junior associates' nightmares.

Vivienne Duclair.

The top arbitration lawyer out of Paris. Sorbonne graduate. The same woman who defended a multinational oil corporation in a $3.4 billion international dispute...and won. The Financial Tribune once called her “The Black Widow of Arbitration.”

Of course Zane hired her. Why throw a punch when you can drop a bomb?

I swallowed. Lightly. Then pulled out the chair beside Amelia and sat down. Back straight, shoulders firm, face blank. The kind of blank you only learn after years of swallowing humiliation under fluorescent lights in courtrooms.

“Miss Rosa,” Vivienne said, her voice like silk that could strangle. “It’s an honor to finally sit across from you. I quite enjoyed your arguments in Carrington vs. StateTech. Very… inventive.”

I offered a tight smile. “And I’ve always admired your ability to twist logic like a clothesline. Likewise.”

She chuckled softly. Not offended. Of course not. She wasn’t the type to get rattled.

She was the type to dismantle you while sipping espressowithout smudging her lipstick.

I started arranging my documents, nudging Amelia’s elbow slightly, her cue to begin.

But the first voice to cut through the room wasn’t hers.

It was Zane’s.

“Of course you’re sitting across from me,” he muttered, his eyes locked on mine, sharp enough to wound, held back only by legal procedure.