Chapter 7: His Eyes, My Son’s Eyes

Adrian

The pen in my hand barely moved.

I had stared at the same paragraph for nearly ten minutes, the words flattening into meaningless lines. My assistant had flown in with the draft this morning—urgent, time-sensitive, “absolutely top priority”—but I couldn’t focus. Not today.

The air felt... tight.

Not heavy, exactly. Just off.

Paris did that to me. It always had. Too ornate, too sentimental. A city built for people who believed in second chances.

And I didn’t.

I stood from the bench near the private lounge of the gallery, watching as the early access team rearranged placements for the exhibit. My exhibit. Or more like an exhibit for all the artists. Volkov International was sponsoring the entire thing—high-profile art show, luxury networking, brand alignment. All buzzwords that used to mean something.

Now? Just noise.

I adjusted my cuff, checked the time, and turned back toward my seat.

Then I heard a voice.

“Mister, is that real gold?”

The voice was small but clear. Curious. Confident.

I glanced down.

A little boy was standing in front of me, pointing at my watch with a kind of boldness only children possessed. Soft brown curls, wide gray eyes—too wide—and a face that was too familiar.

I blinked. “The watch?”

“Yeah. It’s shiny.”

“It’s gold,” I said, slower this time. “Real.”

He nodded, impressed. “You must be really rich.”

A soft laugh left my throat before I could stop it. “You could say that.”

He didn’t move away. Just stared up at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve. And then he climbed up onto the bench beside me, kicked his feet out, and made himself comfortable.

I watched him. Not out of suspicion—but out of something else.

Something deeper.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Caleb.”

The name landed like a stone in my chest for an unexplainable reason.

“Nice to meet you, Caleb. I’m Adrian.”

“Nice to meet you too, Mister” he said casually, then looked around. “This place is huge. Are you the boss here or something?”

“Something like that.”

He leaned in, voice low like we were sharing a secret. “I’m four and a half. But people always think I’m five.”

“Because you’re tall?”

“Because I talk a lot.”

I couldn’t help it—I smiled.

We talked. About dinosaurs. About his favorite foods. About his shoes. About the stars he liked to count out loud when he couldn’t sleep.

And with every word, every look, every half-smile—I felt something pull at me.

Then he leaned closer and said, simply, “You look like me.”

I froze.

“What?”

He pointed to my face. “Your eyes. Mommy says mine are special.”

I didn’t respond.

I couldn’t.

Because now that he’d said it—I couldn’t unsee it.

He did look like me.

Exactly like me.

My mind spun. Spun in circles I didn’t want to follow, down paths I wasn’t ready to walk. It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be.

But it was there. Staring right at me.

And just as I was about to ask—

“Caleb!”

The sound of her voice split through me like a gunshot.

I turned, and the world stopped.

Alessia.

She was standing at the lounge entrance, her chest rising fast, her eyes locked on the boy—then me.

Five years.

Five damn years.

And there she was. In the same room as me. As if no time had passed. As if she hadn’t vanished in the middle of the night without a word—leaving nothing but a pathetic handwritten note on our fucking bedroom.

I couldn’t breathe.

She looked... older. Stronger. Worn in ways I didn’t know how to name. But still her.

Still Alessia.

And still the woman who walked out on me five years ago.

She moved forward quickly, her hand reaching for the boy—Caleb—her posture stiff.

“Caleb, baby,” she said tightly. “You can’t just run off like that.”

“I remembered the stairs,” he said with a small shrug. “And I was just talking to—”

She cut him off gently but firmly. “We talked about this, remember?”

Then she looked at me.

Really looked at me.

My jaw clenched.

I could feel the heat under my skin. The sting in my throat. The weight of a thousand questions that had never been answered. She had no right to look at me like this. No right to appear out of nowhere, five years later, with a child who looked like me and eyes that wouldn’t meet mine.

I took a step closer.

“What is this?” I asked, my voice low, tight. “Alessia—who is he?”

Her chin lifted slightly. “He’s a client’s son.”

Cold. Immediate.

Like she’d prepared it.

And maybe she had.

My eyes dropped to Caleb again. I heard his little voice in my head. You look like me.

Her words hung in the air between us. And she knew I didn’t believe them. But she didn’t flinch.

I stared at her, waiting—wanting her to flinch. To crack. To admit something.

But she didn’t.

She just reached for the boy’s hand.

“We should go,” she said quietly. “We have a meeting to get to.”

Caleb looked confused. “But I was still talking—”

“Not now, sweetheart.”

She gave me one last look—a flicker of something I couldn’t name—and then turned away.

“Bye, Mister Adrian,” Caleb said softly, giving me a little wave.

I didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

They walked out of the room like a storm that hadn’t broken yet. And I just stood there—paralyzed.

My hands curled into fists at my sides.

My chest burned.

Because she had been gone for five years.

And now she was back. With a child.

With my name on the boy’s tongue.

And the same eyes staring back at me.