I SHOULDN'T HAVE COME BACK

Red.

I stare at the dress hanging from my hotel closet.

It's the same one from three years ago. The one he bought me. The one he tore off with his teeth.

"I can't wear this."

My reflection doesn't answer.

She just looks scared.

I pull out my phone. Text Mason.

"This is insane."

"Probably," he writes back. "But do you want the truth or not?"

"I want the interview."

"Then wear the dress."

I throw the phone on the bed.

Shower. Hot. Scalding. Trying to burn off the nerves.

It doesn't work.

Nothing works.

Because every time I close my eyes, I see Ethan's face in that hallway. The way his voice cracked when he said "a son."

He didn't know.

All this time, he didn't know about the baby.

And now I have to tell him.

Tonight.

In his house.

While his fake fiancée watches.

The drive takes twenty-two minutes.

I count every one.

Lake Washington gleams black under the moon. The houses get bigger. The gates get taller. The air gets colder.

His house sits at the end of a private road. Glass walls. Dark water. No lights except one upstairs.

He's waiting.

Or she is.

I park my rental car next to his Porsche. Next to her Mercedes. Next to the black SUV with tinted windows that definitely has security inside.

The doorbell echoes like a gunshot.

Ethan opens the door.

No shirt.

Jersey hanging open. Grey sweatpants low on his hips. Hair wet. Feet bare.

He looks like every dream I tried to forget.

"You wore red."

"You noticed."

"I notice everything." He steps back. "Come in."

The house is cold. Too big. Too empty. Marble floors. High ceilings. No photos. No warmth. No life.

"Where's Vanessa?"

"Gone."

"Gone where?"

"I told her to leave." He walks to the window. Back to me. "She wasn't happy."

"I bet."

"Do you blame her? Another woman shows up at my house at nine o'clock wearing a dress I've seen before?"

"You remember this dress?"

He turns.

His eyes drag down my body. Slow. Like he's reading every line.

"I remember everything, Ava."

My real name.

Again.

"I thought I wasn't supposed to say yours."

"You're not." He walks toward me. "But I can say yours. I've been saying it for three years."

"In your head?"

"In my sleep." He stops a foot away. "My teammates think I have nightmares."

"Do you?"

"I have you." His hand lifts. Touches my hair. Just the ends. Just barely. "Every night. Same dream. You're walking away. I'm chasing. I never catch you."

"That sounds like a nightmare."

"It is." He drops his hand. "Drink?"

"No."

"Sit?"

"No."

"Then why are you here, Thompson? Really?"

"The interview."

"Bullshit."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He walks to the bar. Pours whiskey. Doesn't offer me any. "You didn't drive across the city at nine o'clock wearing that dress because you want a quote for your article."

"Then why did I come?"

"You tell me."

I don't answer.

He drinks.

The ice clicks against the glass.

"I read something once," he says. "About guilt. How it makes people confess. How it makes them seek out the person they wronged. How it makes them want—" He stops.

"Want what?"

"Punishment."

"I don't want you to punish me."

"No?" He sets down the glass. Walks toward me again. "Then why are you shaking?"

I look at my hands.

They're trembling.

"I'm cold."

"Liar."

"Your house is freezing."

"My house is seventy-two degrees." He stops in front of me. So close his chest almost touches mine. "You're shaking because you're scared. And you're scared because you know what happens next."

"What happens next?"

"You tell me the truth."

"I told you the truth. Your father. Mason. The article. All of it."

"Not that truth." His finger lifts my chin. "The other truth. The one you've been hiding since you walked into that press room."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes you do."

"Ethan—"

"I said don't say my name." His voice drops. Dangerous. "Unless you want me to do something we'll both regret."

"Maybe I want to regret something."

His eyes darken.

"Maybe I've been regretting everything for three years," I whisper. "Maybe one more regret won't make a difference."

"It will."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know you." His thumb traces my lower lip. "I know you better than anyone. I know you bite this lip when you're nervous. I know you play with your hair when you're lying. I know you cross your arms when you're scared."

I uncross my arms.

"Better."

"I know you hum in your sleep. Something classical. Beethoven maybe."

"I don't hum."

"You do." He almost smiles. "You hum when you're happy. You used to hum all the time."

"Used to."

"What changed?"

"You happened."

"Me?"

"Loving you." The words tumble out. "Loving you changed everything. It made me weak. It made me stupid. It made me trust people I shouldn't have trusted."

"Like Mason."

"Like everyone." I step back. Need space. Need air. "Your father came to me six months before the article. He said if I didn't leave you, he'd ruin my family. My mother's business. My father's reputation. My brother's scholarship."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because he said he'd hurt you too."

"I can take care of myself."

"Can you?" I laugh. No humor. "He's your father, Ethan. You worship him. You would have confronted him. He would have denied everything. And then I would have been the crazy girlfriend trying to come between you."

"So you wrote the article instead."

"I wrote what he gave me."

"Anonymous sources."

"Paid sources. Fake documents. Manufactured evidence." My voice cracks. "I thought if I made you hate me, you'd be safe."

"Safe from what?"

"From him."

Ethan stares at me.

The anger doesn't leave his face.

But something else joins it.

Something that looks like understanding.

"You sacrificed yourself," he says slowly. "For me?"

"I sacrificed our son."

The words hang in the air.

He goes still.

Completely still.

Like a predator who just heard a twig snap.

"What did you say?"

"I was pregnant, Ethan. When I left. When I wrote the article. When I disappeared." My eyes burn. "I was carrying your baby."

"You said they told you he died."

"They did."

"But he didn't."

"I don't know." A tear falls. I wipe it away. "I don't know anything anymore. The hospital records are wrong. The signatures are forged. The doctor won't talk to me."

"When did you find this out?"

"Three weeks ago. A nurse called me. Anonymous. Said she was there that night. Said my baby was alive when he was born. Said someone took him."

"Took him where?"

"I don't know."

"My father?"

"I don't know."

"Mason?"

"I don't know, Ethan!" I'm crying now. Full tears. Can't stop them. "I don't know anything except I've been living a lie for three years. I thought our baby died. I mourned him. I buried him. I visited his grave."

"There's a grave?"

"An empty one. I paid for it. I put a stone on it. I talked to it every week."

Ethan's face breaks.

The mask shatters.

He crosses the room in two steps and pulls me against his chest.

I sob into his skin.

His hands shake as they hold me.

"We're going to find out," he says into my hair. "Together. We're going to find out what happened to our son."

"Your father—"

"I don't care about my father."

"Vanessa—"

"I don't care about Vanessa."

"Your career—"

"I don't care about any of it." He pulls back. Cups my face in both hands. "I care about you. I've always cared about you. Even when I hated you. Even when I thought you betrayed me. Even when I wanted to destroy you."

"You still want to destroy me."

"No." His thumb wipes my tears. "I want to keep you. I've always wanted to keep you."

"Then why did you let me go?"

"Because you asked me to."

"I was trying to protect you."

"I know that now."

"What do we do?"

"We find our son." His forehead presses against mine. "And then we destroy everyone who took him from us."

Footsteps on the stairs.

We break apart.

Vanessa appears in the doorway. Red dress. Matching nails. Matching fury.

"I thought I told you to leave," she says to me.

"I thought you were gone," Ethan says to her.

"I lied." She smiles. No warmth. "I wanted to see what she would do. What you would do. And now I know."

"What do you know?" I ask.

"I know you're crying. I know he's holding you. I know you're plotting something." She walks into the room. Slow. Deliberate. "What I don't know is why I shouldn't call the media right now. 'Ethan Hayes cheats on fiancée with ex-journalist.' Imagine the headlines."

"Imagine the headlines if I tell them about your father," I say.

"My father?"

"Darius Hayes. Your partner. Your co-conspirator. The man who paid you to play fiancée."

Vanessa's smile freezes.

"You don't know anything."

"I know you're not a billionaire's daughter. I know your real name is Vanessa Cole from Spokane, Washington. I know your father is a truck driver and your mother works at Walmart."

"Ethan—"

"I know all of it," I continue. "I've been investigating for three years. I have files. Documents. Recordings. I have everything."

Vanessa looks at Ethan.

He doesn't defend her.

He doesn't move.

He just watches.

"You're going to regret this," she whispers.

"I already regret everything." I step toward her. "The only question is whether you'll regret crossing me."

Vanessa leaves.

The door slams.

Silence fills the house.

Ethan doesn't speak.

He just looks at me.

Like he's seeing me for the first time.

"I should go," I say.

"Don't."

"Your fiancée—"

"Fake fiancée."

"Your reputation—"

"I don't care."

"Ethan—"

He kisses me.

Hard.

His hands in my hair. My back against the wall. His body pressing mine.

My legs wrap around his waist.

His mouth finds my throat.

"I've waited three years," he growls against my skin. "Three years to touch you. To taste you. To remember what you feel like."

"So remember."

He carries me up the stairs.

Two at a time.

Past the photos. Past the lies. Past everything.

His bedroom is dark.

The bed is huge.

He lays me down like I'm something precious.

Then he steps back.

"I need to hear you say it," he says.

"Say what?"

"That you want this. That you want me. That this isn't revenge or guilt or some twisted way of getting closure."

"It's not."

"Then what is it?"

I reach for him.

Pull him down.

Whisper against his lips.

"It's me coming home."