Chapter 2

Lucien’s POV

She looked at me like I was a ghost.

It wasn’t the usual reaction I got when walking into a room—fear, awe, admiration, maybe a hint of jealousy. No, this was different. Her expression hit me like a cold wave—eyes wide, skin pale, breath caught in her throat.

And for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why.

Isla Monroe.

The name lingered in my mind long after the meeting ended. I knew I’d seen her before. Not in a vague, have we met at some gala? kind of way. No, this was different. She struck something deep, something old. Like a song you haven’t heard in years that still makes your chest tighten.

But I couldn’t place her. That infuriated me.

I’d spent years sharpening my instincts, reading people in seconds, uncovering lies with a glance. Yet the moment I looked into her eyes, all of that precision slipped.

Familiar. That’s what she was.

Too familiar.

I stood at the window of my penthouse hours later, the city skyline spread out like a conquest. But I wasn’t thinking about stock prices or acquisition deals. I was thinking about her.

That look on her face. The way she flinched when I said her name.

Isla.

There was something in the way her lips moved. A memory that wouldn’t form completely. A moment just out of reach.

Italy.

My hands tightened around the glass of scotch. It had been five years, but suddenly, that summer came back in flashes.

A quiet village outside Florence. A woman with sun-kissed skin and laughter in her voice. I’d gone by Luke then. My middle name. Trying to escape my life, my name, the headlines.

And her. The girl who never asked who I really was.

She just saw me.

Could it be…?

No. It couldn’t be.

But the timelines matched. The way she looked at me—like I’d shattered her—matched.

And her eyes… God, they were the same ones I remembered looking up at me beneath a Tuscan sky.

I set the glass down and pulled up her employee file. Legal consultant. Hired three years ago. Good reputation. Clean record.

But there was a gap. A full year missing.

Maternity leave?

The thought hit me like a brick to the chest.

I opened a private background search. Isla Monroe. Age 29. Born in Seattle. Moved to New York six years ago. One dependent.

My heart stopped.

Leo Monroe. Age four.

Born nine months after that summer.

I stared at the screen, unmoving. My throat went dry. My ears rang.

A son?

No. I was jumping to conclusions. There had to be more. I needed more.

The next morning, I watched her from my office window. She moved through the hallway with that same air of forced calm, the kind people wear when they’re seconds from falling apart.

She hadn’t told me.

She hadn’t told me I had a child.

If he was mine.

If.

The word rattled in my head like a threat. I needed to be sure. I needed proof. Because if she lied—if she kept my son from me—then this wasn’t just betrayal.

It was war.

I picked up the phone.

“Darren, I need a quiet DNA test run. Fast. Get me something off Isla Monroe. Coffee cup, pen, anything.”

“You think she—”

“Just do it.”

That evening, I sat alone in my car outside her apartment building.

It wasn’t planned. I told myself I was just in the area. But I stayed. Watched as she walked inside, holding a small boy’s hand. He laughed, loud and bright, his cheeks flushed from the cold.

I couldn’t move.

The kid turned his head. Just for a second. Our eyes met.

Grey.

Not maybe grey. Not sort-of grey.

My grey.

My mouth went dry. My chest felt like it caved in.

He looked just like me.

He was mine.