The snowstorm had turned New York City into a frozen maze of flashing sirens, stalled traffic, and relentless wind that cut through layers of clothing like glass. It was the kind of night when most people stayed home, wrapped in blankets, ordering takeout and watching the storm rage safely from behind their windows.

I, however, was out in it.

The heater in my aging car barely worked, and the windshield wipers struggled against the heavy snow. In the back seat, my four-year-old twins, Noah and Lily, sat bundled in thick coats and wool hats, their small faces flushed from the cold. Their daycare had closed early because of the storm, and I couldn’t afford to skip work. Rent didn’t wait for better weather.

So they came with me.

“I’m cold, Mommy,” Lily whispered softly, her breath fogging the window.

“I know, sweetheart,” I said gently, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. “Just one more delivery, then we’re going home.”

At least, that was the plan.

The order came from one of the tallest buildings in Midtown—a glass tower that seemed to disappear into the storm clouds. The customer had paid extra for priority delivery, and the tip alone could cover groceries for a week. I couldn’t say no.

I parked illegally near the entrance, wrapped scarves tighter around the twins, and hurried inside the building, clutching the insulated food bag. Warm air greeted us immediately, along with marble floors that gleamed under bright lights. The lobby was quiet, nearly empty, the storm having driven most workers home early.

A distracted security guard barely glanced at us as we rushed toward the elevators.

“Which button, Mommy?” Noah asked, reaching toward the panel.

“Forty-two,” I replied, shifting the heavy bag on my shoulder.

But in my haste, juggling two children and slippery gloves, I didn’t notice which elevator we entered. The doors closed smoothly, and instead of stopping at the public office floors, the elevator rose higher… and higher… bypassing every number I expected.

A soft chime sounded.

The doors opened to a silent, luxurious hallway lined with dark wood panels and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the storm-covered city. Plush carpets swallowed our footsteps.

I frowned. This didn’t look like a regular office floor.

Before I could react, Noah wriggled free from my hand and ran forward, his small boots thudding against the carpet.

“Noah, wait!” I called.

But he had already pushed open a large glass door at the end of the hall.

We stepped into a vast office unlike anything I had ever seen. The room was enormous, its windows stretching across an entire wall, revealing the swirling white chaos outside. A massive desk sat in the center, sleek and commanding, with a high-backed leather chair behind it.

Noah climbed onto the chair with delighted laughter.

“Look, Mommy!” he giggled, spinning slightly. “I’m the boss!”

I was about to scold him when the door behind us opened sharply.

A tall man entered, removing his coat, his expression irritated—until he saw us.

The world seemed to stop.

Five years vanished in an instant.

Daniel Hart.

CEO of the corporation whose name adorned the building. Billionaire. Visionary. The man whose face appeared regularly on magazine covers.

And the man who had once been the love of my life.

His eyes locked onto mine, confusion flickering across his face before recognition struck like lightning. The same piercing gaze, the same presence that had once made me feel safe—now filled with stunned disbelief.

“Elena?” he breathed.

My heart pounded violently in my chest. I hadn’t seen him since the night I disappeared from his life without explanation. Since the night I learned I was pregnant. Since the night I chose to protect a secret that could destroy everything.

Noah’s laughter broke the silence.

Daniel’s attention shifted slowly to the child sitting in his chair. His gaze sharpened, studying the boy’s face—the familiar shape of his eyes, the curve of his smile.

Then Lily stepped forward, clutching my coat.

The resemblance was undeniable.

The room seemed to shrink around us.

“These children…” Daniel said quietly, his voice unsteady. “They’re yours?”

My throat tightened. I had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in my mind, yet now that it had arrived, words felt impossible.

“Yes,” I whispered.

He looked between the twins again, his expression shifting from confusion to dawning realization. “Five years ago,” he said slowly, “you vanished without a word.”

I swallowed hard. “I thought it was the only way.”