Бродяга

Isla’s POV

They say ghosts don’t exist, but they’ve never been blindsided by one in a designer suit and Italian leather shoes.

I was running late for the Monday morning meeting—half-asleep, clutching my lukewarm coffee, and praying no one noticed the stain on my blouse from Leo’s jelly toast attack. I slid into my chair just as our CEO, Mike, cleared his throat.

“We have a new majority shareholder,” he began, eyes darting nervously around the boardroom. “He’ll be overseeing operations personally. Please give a warm welcome to—”

The door opened. I looked up. And my heart stopped.

He stepped into the room like he owned it—which, technically, he now did.

Lucien Wolfe.

Only I didn’t know him as that. Not five years ago. Back then, I only knew him as Luke—the man who kissed me under a Tuscan sunset, who made me laugh like I hadn’t in years, who vanished without warning and took my heart with him.

The same man who had no idea he left me with something far more permanent than heartbreak.

I gripped the edge of the conference table, my nails biting into the wood. He looked different—taller somehow, broader, sharper around the edges. His dark hair was slicked back now, his jaw tighter, his expression like chiseled ice.

But his eyes.

God, those eyes.

Grey. Cold. Calculating.

And still the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

He scanned the room with all the warmth of a panther selecting prey. And then—he saw me.

Our eyes locked. A flicker of something crossed his face—confusion, maybe? Recognition? But it vanished before I could name it.

“Thank you, Mike,” Lucien said smoothly, his voice deeper than I remembered. “I’m not here to shake things up… yet. I’m just observing. Continue.”

He sat at the head of the table, precisely where he belonged. Alpha. Untouchable.

I couldn’t breathe.

My mind screamed. Does he remember me? But he didn’t say a word. Didn’t falter. Didn’t even blink.

I forced myself to sit still through the rest of the meeting, though I heard none of it. The walls felt like they were closing in. The room was too hot, too bright. Or maybe that was just my panic setting in.

The moment Mike dismissed us, I bolted—too fast, too obvious, but I didn’t care.

I made it to the hallway, half-jogging toward the elevator, willing the doors to open faster.

“Isla.”

I froze.

His voice was behind me—quiet, commanding, impossible to ignore.

Slowly, I turned. Lucien stood just a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching me like he was trying to place a dream from a lifetime ago.

“You look… familiar,” he said, head tilting slightly. “Have we met?”

I swallowed. “I—I don’t think so.”

He studied me longer, and I felt like I was being dissected under a microscope. “You sure?”

“Positive,” I lied.

He stepped closer. Not threatening. Not unkind. Just… intense. “Hmm. Maybe I’m mistaken.”

You are. Please be mistaken. Please walk away.

But he didn’t. “What’s your name?”

I hesitated. “Isla. Isla Monroe.”

He said it quietly, testing the sound of it on his tongue. “Isla.”

The elevator chimed. I turned and stepped inside, desperate for escape.

As the doors closed, I met his gaze one last time.

Those eyes. That face. That past I’d buried deep.

And the secret I had never told a soul.

I made it to the bathroom before I broke.

Locking myself in the furthest stall, I sat down and pressed a hand to my mouth to muffle the sob that escaped.

Lucien Wolfe. Billionaire. CEO. Tech titan. My son’s father.

How was this happening?

Five years. I’d told myself a thousand times I would never see him again. That what we had was just a summer illusion. That he probably wasn’t even real.

But now he was here. Flesh and blood. Standing in my office.

And I had a son with his eyes and no idea how to fix this.

That night, I tucked Leo into bed and sat beside him as he drifted to sleep. His tiny hand clutched my fingers, his lashes long and dark against his cheeks. He was the only good thing that had come from that heartbreak.

He didn’t know who his father was. I’d never spoken his name. How could I, when I didn’t know who Lucien Wolfe really was until recently—until his face started popping up in Forbes articles and tech magazines?

I’d thought about reaching out. A hundred times. A thousand.

But how do you explain to the richest man in the country that you had his child and never told him?

And how do you admit that you were scared? That you didn’t know if he’d want the baby, or hate you for keeping it?

Now the choice was being ripped from my hands.

He was here.

And the past I’d worked so hard to bury was clawing its way to the surface.