The soft sound of a child's giggle echoed faintly through the phone, followed by a whisper: "Is Daddy awake yet?"
Ava clutched the phone tighter, her back pressed against the inside wall of the estate's laundry room, the only place where she could take the call without being overheard.
"Not yet, sweetheart," she whispered, her voice trembling despite her calm tone. "Daddy's still getting better."
On the other end of the line, her mother sighed. "He asks every day, Ava. I don't know how much longer we can keep up the lie."
Ava shut her eyes. "Please, Mom. Just a little longer. Until I figure out what Lucien remembers… if anything."
"And if he never remembers?" her mother asked softly.
Ava's silence was answer enough.
Because if Lucien never remembered, Ava would have to make a choice, tell him the truth and risk losing everything… or disappear again, taking their son with her forever.
She ended the call before she could fall apart. Composed herself. And stepped out, straight into Lucien's head butler.
"You're needed in the north wing," he said stiffly. "Mr. Blackwell is requesting you again."
Ava nodded, heart racing. "Of course."
Lucien was seated at the edge of his massive bed, bare-chested and fresh from a shower, toweling his damp hair. His presence filled the room like a storm. He didn't even look up as she entered.
"You disappeared," he said.
"I needed a moment," she replied, keeping her tone neutral.
"You didn't ask permission."
"I wasn't aware I needed it."
That made him pause. Slowly, he looked up—and something flickered in his eyes. Not annoyance. Not anger. But… interest.
"You're not afraid of me," he said.
"No."
"You should be. Everyone else is."
Ava stepped closer, careful not to let the emotion in her voice crack. "I'm not here to fear you, Mr. Blackwell. I'm here to help you recover."
He tilted his head. "You have a child?"
The question struck her like a slap. She blinked. "Why do you ask?"
"You were on the phone earlier. I could hear a child's voice."
Her throat tightened. "It was my nephew."
Lucien studied her, but said nothing. Just turned to look out the window, his profile sharp and unreadable.
"You'll be staying here permanently," he said. "In the west wing. I've given orders."
Ava swallowed. "That's not necessary."
"I disagree."
She took a step back. "I have responsibilities outside. I… I can't live in the mansion full-time."
Lucien turned his gaze to her again. "Then bring them here."
"What?"
"Your responsibilities. Whatever's keeping you out there, solve it. Bring it here. I don't like not having access to the people I trust."
She froze.
Bring her son here? To the same house where Lucien lived? Where his mother, the woman who'd tried to erase Ava from his life, roamed the halls?
Absolutely not.
"I'll... manage it," she said softly, then bowed quickly. "Excuse me, sir."
As she fled the room, one thought screamed in her head:
He can never know. Not yet. Not like this.
She clutched her stomach as if trying to protect the memory of the child she once carried.
Because if Lucien remembered... and claimed their son... she'd lose the only piece of him she had left.