Chapter 4

Mia

My hands hovered uselessly in the air, frozen somewhere between reaching for him and pushing him away. Hundreds of eyes fixed on this scene, on me, on this child clinging to me like I was his lifeline.

I didn't know what to do. My throat had closed up completely, my carefully constructed composure shattering.

"Asher, sweetie, come here." The older woman reached the podium, her face flushed. She grasped the boy's shoulders gently, trying to pull him away. "I'm so sorry, miss, he's been confused lately—"

But his grip only tightened.

"No!" His small fists twisted into the fabric of my gown. "No, I want Mama! Mama came back!"

"Asher, please—" The woman pulled harder.

He pulled back just as hard, his fingers locked in the red silk, and I heard it—the sharp, unmistakable sound of fabric tearing.

Rip.

The sound echoed in the silent ballroom. I stood there helpless, caught between this sobbing child and a woman trying desperately to pry him loose, feeling my dress split at the seam as they pulled in opposite directions.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—" the woman kept repeating, her voice strained.

Then another voice cut through the chaos.

Cold. Decisive. Absolutely devoid of emotion.

"Asher. Let go."

I lifted my head, turned toward the voice, and found myself looking directly into Luke's eyes.

I hadn't imagined our reunion would be like this.

The banquet hall held its breath.

Luke stood at the edge of the VIP section in a charcoal suit, perfectly still. Eight years had carved away everything soft I remembered, leaving sharp planes and hard edges. His eyes found mine across the frozen crowd, and I felt that look like a physical blow.

"Asher," he said again, his voice carrying across the room. "Let go."

The boy's grip on my dress tightened. He tilted his head back to look at me, eyes wide and shining with tears, but there was something almost triumphant in his expression—like he'd finally found what he'd been searching for. "But it's Mama. Daddy shows me pictures every day. It's her, it's really her."

My heart stopped.

Every day. Luke had been showing this child pictures of me. Every single day.

The boy's words struck me with devastating clarity, stealing the breath from my lungs. For eight years, I'd convinced myself that leaving had been the right choice—that Luke would move on, build a life without me, forget. But this... this meant he'd kept me alive in his world, shown my face to a child who'd never met me, woven me into their daily routine like I was still part of his life—like I'd never left at all.

What kind of man does that? What kind of love—or hate—makes someone cling to a memory for eight years, feeding it to a child like a bedtime story?

I couldn't name the feeling that washed over me when I heard those words.

The nanny shot Luke an apologetic glance, half-exasperated, half-amused. "Mr. Morrison, I'm so sorry, I tried to stop him but he just—"

"It's fine, Margaret." Luke's gaze shifted away from my face as he moved forward, as though he'd never known me at all, and despite everything, there was the faintest hint of resignation in his tone—like this wasn't the first time Asher had caused a scene. The crowd parted. "I'll handle it."

He reached the podium and crouched beside Asher, one hand settling on the boy's shoulder. "Asher. Look at me."

Asher's face turned toward his father, bottom lip jutting out in a pout that would have been adorable under any other circumstances. "But Daddy, it's Mama. You said she'd come back someday. You promised."

Something flickered across Luke's expression—so fast I almost missed it. Not quite pain. More like the weary patience of someone who'd had this conversation before.

"I know what I said." Luke's voice gentled. "But this lady has a job to do right now. You need to let her go so she can finish working. Then we'll talk about it."

Asher's eyes lit up at that. "Talk about Mama?"

"We'll talk." Luke's tone was careful, measured. "But first, you have to let go."

His gaze darted between Luke and me, clearly weighing his options. Then, with the dramatic reluctance only a six or seven-year-old could muster, his fingers slowly uncurled from my dress. "Okay. But you promised we'd talk."

"I promised." Luke straightened, and Margaret moved forward, offering her hand to Asher.

"Come on, sweetheart," she said gently. "Let's go wait in the car. I think there are cookies in my bag."

Asher's face brightened slightly at the mention of cookies, though he kept his eyes fixed on me. "Will you come see me?" he asked, his voice small but hopeful. "After you're done working?"

I opened my mouth, but Luke spoke first.

"Margaret, go." His hand settled on Asher's dark curls with unexpected tenderness, his tone firm and brooking no argument. "I'll be there in a minute."

"Of course, Mr. Morrison." The nanny took Asher's hand, and this time he went willingly, though he kept glancing back over his shoulder at me as they walked toward the exit. Just before the heavy doors closed, I caught him waving—a small, hopeful gesture that made my chest ache.

The silence that followed felt thick enough to drown in.

Luke straightened. His gaze swept over me—clinical, assessing. "You should fix your dress. Unless you plan to finish the auction like that."

I glanced down at my torn dress, then back up at Luke, forcing my lips into what I hoped passed for a composed smile. His eyes met mine—cold, so cold I couldn't read anything else beneath the ice. No anger, no recognition, nothing but that glacial emptiness that made my chest tighten.

Then he turned and walked away without a word.

The host's voice broke through the silence, higher and brighter than before. "Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be taking a brief intermission..."Please enjoy the refreshments while we prepare for the next portion of the evening."

I stepped down from the podium and walked toward the backstage area, keeping my head high. My torn dress had become a high slit that threatened to expose me with every step. I needed to find somewhere to fix this disaster.

As I moved through the crowd, whispers followed in my wake.

"Did you see that? The boy called her 'Mama.'"

"I heard Mr. Morrison adopted that child. Could it actually be his illegitimate son?"

"With her? What's this woman's background anyway?"

The voices were low, meant to be discreet, but loud enough that every word reached my ears.

I was nearly at the restroom when a strong hand reached out from behind and caught my arm. Before I could react, I was lifted off my feet. By the time I registered what was happening, I realized it was Luke.

"Luke, put me down—" I struggled against his grip.

"You haven't changed, Mia." His voice was cold, flat. "Still drawing every man's attention the moment you walk into a room."

I couldn't tell if it was jealousy I heard in his tone, or something else entirely—something darker, more complicated that I couldn't begin to parse.

He carried me past the restroom, heading toward a different corridor entirely. I caught glimpses of startled faces as we passed, but Luke's expression remained unreadable, his stride purposeful.

"Luke Morrison, where are you taking me?" I demanded, my voice sharp.

He didn't answer, his expression unchanged as he continued down the corridor.

He shouldered open a door marked "Private Lounge" and carried me inside. As the door swung shut behind us, I caught a glimpse of the hallway beyond—and there, at the far end of the corridor, stood a familiar figure.

I struggled to place her—something about her posture, the way she stood so still in the shadows, felt achingly familiar. But before I could grasp the memory, Luke dropped me onto the sofa with enough force that I bounced against the cushions, a sharp jolt of pain shooting through my spine.

I winced, pressing a hand to my lower back, but my mind kept circling back to that figure in the hallway.

Who was she?

And why had she been looking at me like that?