Returned Back With My Ex-Baby

Ten Years Later – Manhattan, New York

Her heels made a steady, repeating sound on the marble floor, like a ticking clock. Natalia Cruz didn’t stop or hesitate, even when the security guard at Carrington Global looked up with surprise. Of course, he recognized her name on the visitor list—after all, she was a well-known lawyer this year. But what he didn’t know, what no one here knew, was that she wasn’t just here for justice. She had unfinished business. And a secret she’d kept hidden for ten years.

She adjusted her navy blazer as the elevator doors opened with a soft ding, and then she stepped inside. Her reflection in the mirrored walls stared back at her as she exhaled sharply.

Twelve years ago, she came into this building as a young intern. Ten years ago, she left Damien Carrington’s life and never looked back.

And now… she was coming back to take down his company.

The elevator was quiet as it went up, and she felt her chest tighten. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t regret. It was something stronger. She remembered her daughter’s sleepy face that morning, asking why she was wearing “war clothes” again.

Because today, Mommy goes to war.

The elevator dinged at the top floor. The doors opened, showing a large, fancy office with lots of glass and metal. At the center was Damien Carrington himself—taller and more serious than she remembered. Time hadn’t softened him. It had made him even sharper.

His eyes met hers—and held. No smile. No greeting. Just the kind of stare that made your spine remember things you swore you'd forgotten.

“Miss Cruz,” he said, his voice as sharp as a blade. “To what do I owe the pleasure… or is this war already?”

She smiled, slow and professional. “Just business, Mr. Carrington. Though I imagine we both know it’s never just that.”

Damien wasn’t in the business of losing control. Yet the moment Natalia Cruz stepped into his boardroom, every cell in his body went on alert. Same dark eyes, same confident stride, but she was no longer the wide-eyed law student who used to quote case law with trembling fingers and dreams too big for the Bronx. No, the woman standing before him now was sharpened by time and ambition.

And he knew she was here to destroy him.

“Miss Cruz,” he repeated slowly, refusing to let the flicker of shock register on his face. “I was told the opposition was sending someone impressive. I didn’t realize they meant you.”

Her lips curved slightly, professional but not warm. “Imagine my surprise when I saw the name Carrington on my assignment.”

Liar. He could see it in her eyes. She’d known exactly what she was walking into—who she was walking into.

Damien gestured toward the chair across from his. “Then let’s not waste time pretending this is a coincidence.”

She sat, every movement precise and intentional, as though even the way she crossed her legs was part of a strategy. “Very well. Let’s begin.”

He didn’t open the file on the table. Didn’t glance at the legal documents outlining the aggressive class-action suit that could bleed his company dry. His attention remained on the woman before him. Because as much as the lawsuit mattered—and it did, more than he’d ever admit in this room—this meeting wasn’t about legalities.

It was about the ghost between them. The thing left unsaid.

Ten years ago, she vanished. One letter. No explanation. No answers. He’d tried to find her—briefly, at first. Then obsessively. But Natalia Cruz had disappeared like a ghost into fog. And Damien had told himself to forget. He’d buried her name, buried the ache. Until now.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” he said, studying her reaction. “Big firm. Big wins. Even bigger enemies.”

She shrugged lightly. “The law doesn’t care who it offends. It only cares about truth.”

His jaw tightened. “Then tell me the truth. Why now? Why this case?”

“Because your company’s acquisitions are crushing minority-owned businesses and displacing families in East Harlem,” she replied coldly. “Because for every zero in your bank account, there’s a mother who can’t afford rent anymore.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re not here for justice. You’re here for revenge.”

A flicker—just a flash—in her eyes. Then gone. “I’m here to do my job.”

But Damien saw it. The storm beneath the surface. And for a moment, it wasn’t the high-rise boardroom between them. It was the rooftop on 72nd Street, summer air thick around them, her laugh soft in his ear, her hand resting on his chest like she belonged there.

Then she was gone.

Damien leaned forward, voice low. “Whatever game you’re playing, Natalia, you’d better be sure you’re ready for the ending.”

She didn’t flinch. “Oh, I am.”

He watched her rise, gather her briefcase, and walk out without looking back. He let her get to the door before he said it—quiet, dangerous:

“You should’ve told me.”

She froze.

Not for long. Just enough. And when she turned back, her smile was flawless. But her eyes—those traitorous eyes—flickered with panic.

“Told you what, Damien?” she questioned in response.

But he knew. Something inside him already knew. He’d seen the photo on the reporter’s phone last week, meant for another article. A community event in Queens. A child in the crowd with hauntingly familiar gray eyes. Eyes that matched the man she was running from.

Damien stared at the closed door after she left. He exhaled sharply before taking out his phone from his pocket, then he dialed a number.

“Meet me in my office immediately,” he commanded immediately the recipient answered the call. “I’ve got an assignment for you.”

Astoria, Queens – Later That Night

The moment Natalia stepped through the front door of the brownstone, she exhaled. Not the polished, clipped breaths she used in courtrooms or boardrooms—but the ragged, real kind. The kind she hadn’t allowed herself to take since she’d seen Damien Carrington’s face for the first time in ten years.

The scent of arroz con pollo drifted through the air, warm and comforting. From the kitchen, a pot clinked against the stove, followed by the low hum of a Spanish ballad playing from an old radio.

“I know those footsteps,” came a familiar voice.

Natalia smiled despite herself as she shrugged off her coat. “Hi, Abuela.”

Teresa Cruz emerged from the kitchen wearing her usual apron and that same knowing look she’d worn since the day Natalia came home heartbroken and pregnant. Her silver hair was tied back in a bun, and her dark eyes—so much like Natalia’s—were sharper than ever.

“You look tired. You didn’t eat again, did you?” she asked, wiping her hands on a towel. “Your daughter waited for you. Again.”

As if on cue, a blur of motion came racing down the hallway.

“Mami!”

Camila barreled into her arms, all curly hair, wide eyes, and boundless energy. Natalia dropped to her knees, gathering the eight-year-old into a fierce hug. For a moment, all the stress, all the memories, all the pain—dissolved.

“I missed you, estrella,” Natalia whispered into her daughter’s hair. “Was school okay?”

“Mm-hmm. I drew a new picture for your office.” Camila leaned back proudly. “It’s a lady lawyer with a big sword fighting a dragon that looks like a building.”

Natalia laughed softly. “Let me guess… the dragon is Carrington Global?”

“No,” Camila said seriously. “That’s the real bad guy. The dragon is named ‘Corporate Greed.’”

From behind them, Teresa snorted. “Smart girl. Smarter than her mother was at that age.”

Natalia met her grandmother’s gaze, her smile fading. “It was him, Abuela. Today. Damien.”

The kitchen fell silent.

“I sat across from him like nothing happened,” she continued, her voice tight. “Like I hadn’t walked away from the only man I ever—”

She stopped herself. Swallowed the lump rising in her throat.

Teresa crossed the room and placed a hand on Natalia’s cheek. “You made the choice you had to. You were nineteen. Alone. Pregnant. And he… he wasn’t ready to be a father, mija. You don’t owe that man anything.”

Natalia hesitated. “But what if I do?”

Camila had wandered back to the living room, humming softly as she flipped through her sketchpad. Her small voice drifted toward them: “Is that the man in the picture?”

Natalia’s blood froze.

She turned, slowly. “What picture?”

Camila didn’t look up. “The one on your desk. In the drawer. The one you think I don’t know about.”

Teresa raised a brow. “Told you she was smart.”

Natalia knelt by her daughter again, heart thudding. “Camila… why do you ask?”

“I just wondered.” She looked up. “Is he my dad?”

The room shrank. The air thickened. For a moment, Natalia couldn’t breathe.

She had rehearsed this moment a hundred times. And still, it struck like lightning.

“Yes,” she said softly. “He is.”

Camila nodded once. Thoughtful. “Is he nice?”

Natalia hesitated. “He used to be.”

She didn’t have the heart to tell her more—not yet. But the child’s quiet acceptance, the way she smiled like that answer was enough—for now—shattered something inside her.

As Camila returned to her sketching, Teresa placed a hand on Natalia’s shoulder.

“You can’t outrun the past forever, mi amor,” she whispered. “Especially not when it has eyes like hers.”