The slash marks through her face were made by someone who loved her so much it had become a kind of madness.
Elara understood that now, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror at six in the morning, the photo album's destroyed final page burned into her memory. Love and violence, twisted together so tightly they became indistinguishable. The kind of obsession that destroyed what it claimed to protect.
She hadn't slept. Couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw those knife marks—precise, controlled, methodical. Not the wild slashing of rage, but the deliberate destruction of someone who'd taken their time. Who'd wanted to erase her face completely while leaving everything else untouched.
Did he do this?
The question pulsed through her mind like a heartbeat. Is he unstable? Is he dangerous?
She should leave. Should grab her bag and walk out the door and never look back.
But then she remembered Leo's small hand in her hair. His whispered Mama. The way her body had responded with such certainty, such bone-deep recognition.
She couldn't leave. Not yet. Not until she understood what was real and what was lie.
Elara dressed quickly—jeans and a simple sweater she found in the closet, clothes that fit her perfectly even though she had no memory of buying them—and made her way downstairs.
The sound of laughter stopped her on the last step.
Laughter.
She followed it to the kitchen and found a scene so aggressively domestic it felt like a weapon aimed directly at her doubts.
Kairos stood at the stove, spatula in hand, flipping pancakes with the ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times. He wore dark jeans and a soft gray t-shirt instead of the suit from yesterday, and the casual clothes made him look younger. Less intimidating. Almost approachable.
Leo sat at the kitchen island, his small legs swinging, watching his father with rapt attention. And he was giggling—actual sound, actual joy—as Kairos deliberately flipped a pancake too high and had to catch it awkwardly.
"See?" Kairos said, grinning at his son. "Daddy's still got it. Mostly."
The scene was so normal, so perfectly wholesome, that Elara felt reality tilt again. This man—this gentle, playful father—couldn't possibly be the same person who inspired such violent destruction in a photo album.
Could he?
Kairos looked up and saw her. His entire face transformed, softening with something that looked dangerously like hope. "Good morning. I wasn't sure you'd come down."
Translation: I wasn't sure you'd stay.
"I'm here," Elara said carefully, stepping into the kitchen like she was entering a minefield.
Leo turned at the sound of her voice, and his face lit up with such pure happiness that it physically hurt to witness. He scrambled down from his chair and ran to her—actually ran, with none of yesterday's hesitation—and wrapped his small arms around her legs.
"Mama," he whispered against her thigh, the word muffled but clear.
Elara's hands went to his hair automatically, that same instinctive gesture from yesterday. Her body knew what to do even if her mind remained stubbornly blank.
"Hi, sweetheart," she murmured, and the endearment came out naturally, easily, like she'd said it a thousand times before.
Maybe she had.
Kairos watched them with an expression she couldn't quite read. Satisfaction? Relief? Something darker?
"Coffee?" he offered, already reaching for a mug. "Two sugars, splash of cream."
The specificity made her skin prickle. He'd said that yesterday too. Along with a dozen other intimate details about her life, her preferences, her self.
Details that felt true even though she couldn't remember them.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
They moved through the morning routine with an ease that felt rehearsed. Kairos made breakfast. She helped Leo into his chair. They ate pancakes with syrup while morning sunlight streamed through the windows. It was so perfectly, painfully normal.
Except for the destroyed photograph burning a hole in her memory.
Except for the words legal surrogate she'd glimpsed in his study.
Except for everything.
"That album," Elara said finally, breaking the comfortable silence. Her voice came out harder than intended. "The destroyed photos. What happened?"
Kairos's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. A door closing. A wall going up.
"What album?" he asked carefully.
"In the nightstand drawer. In my room. The last page—someone took a knife to the photos. To my face specifically."
Leo was oblivious, focused entirely on drowning his pancakes in an ocean of syrup. But Kairos's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking beneath the skin.
"You shouldn't have looked through that," he said quietly.
"It was in my room. In my drawer."
"Because I didn't want you to find it." His voice was still calm, but there was steel underneath now. Control barely maintained. "I should have thrown it away years ago."
"Who did it?" Elara pressed. "Was it you?"
The question hung between them like a blade.
Kairos's face hardened into something cold and distant. The gentle father vanished, replaced by the ruthless CEO she'd first encountered yesterday. "My family. My mother specifically. She hated you."
Elara's breath caught. "Hated me? Why?"
"She was jealous."
"Jealous of what?"
Kairos looked directly at her, his gaze intense enough to burn. "Of how much I loved you."
He said it so simply. So finally. Like it was the most obvious truth in the world. Like loving someone to the point that it inspired violence in others was just a fact to be stated and accepted.
Elara felt something twist in her chest. Not quite fear. Not quite attraction. Something more dangerous—curiosity.
"Your mother destroyed photos of me because you loved me," she said slowly, testing the logic.
"My mother destroyed photos of you because she wanted me to marry someone else. Someone from her world, with the right family, the right connections. Someone who would strengthen our empire instead of—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching harder.
"Instead of what?"
"Instead of loving me for myself." The words came out bitter. "You weren't wealthy. You weren't connected. You were nobody by her standards. And you made me happy. That was unforgivable."
The explanation made sense. Wealthy family, controlling mother, forbidden love—it was practically a romance novel plot.
So why did every instinct Elara possessed scream that something was wrong?
Leo chose that moment to reach for her, syrup-sticky hands outstretched. "Mama. Up."
She lifted him without thinking, settling him on her lap despite the mess. He immediately snuggled against her chest, content and trusting in a way that made her throat tight.
It felt right. Natural. Like she'd held this child a hundred thousand times.
But she knew it shouldn't feel right. She didn't remember this boy. Didn't remember carrying him, birthing him, raising him.
Yet her body responded like she did. Maternal instinct activated by something deeper than conscious memory.
Or something else?
Leo handed her a piece of pancake—carefully torn, the gesture deliberate—and waited expectantly until she ate it. When she did, his entire face lit up with satisfaction.
"Good?" he asked, and it was the first word beyond Mama that she'd heard him speak.
"So good," Elara assured him, and his smile could have powered the entire city.
Kairos watched them with an expression she couldn't decipher. Hunger, maybe. Or desperation barely restrained.
"He hasn't spoken this much in three years," Kairos said quietly. "The doctors said he might never talk again. And now—" His voice caught. "Now you're here, and he's talking. Smiling. Being a child again instead of a ghost."
The weight of that statement settled over Elara like a blanket made of guilt and obligation. How could she leave when her presence—real or imagined—gave this child his voice back?
How could she stay when everything about this situation felt wrong?
"I'd like to see more of the house," she said finally. Neutral ground. Safe topic. "I should know where I—where we lived."
Where I lived, she'd almost said. Because she still couldn't quite make herself believe that this place, this man, this life had ever been hers.
The mansion tour felt like walking through someone else's museum.
Every room was perfectly appointed, expensive without being ostentatious. Modern lines, neutral colors, spaces designed for living rather than showing off. Kairos moved through it with the ease of ownership, pointing out details with casual intimacy.
"This is where you liked to read in the afternoons," he said, gesturing to a window seat overlooking the garden. "The light hits perfectly around three o'clock."
Elara looked at the space and tried to imagine herself there. Curled up with a book, sunlight warming her skin. The image came surprisingly easy, which only made her more unsettled.
Photos lined the hallways. Her face appeared in almost every frame—laughing, serious, caught in candid moments that suggested a photographer who'd been obsessed with capturing her. Always her, even in group shots. Her face was the focus, the center, the subject.
It felt less like love and more like surveillance.
"Your clothes are still in the closet," Kairos said, opening the door to what he claimed was their shared bedroom. His bedroom, he'd said last night. The master suite.
The space was massive—king-sized bed, sitting area, private balcony overlooking the city. Masculine but not aggressively so. Dark woods, soft grays, hints of warmth in the textiles.
Kairos opened the walk-in closet, revealing rows of women's clothing. Dresses, jeans, sweaters, shoes—an entire wardrobe in her size. Designer labels mixed with casual pieces, suggesting someone with money but not obsessed with showing it.
"I couldn't get rid of them," he said quietly. "After you disappeared. Everyone told me to pack it up, move on. But I couldn't. I kept thinking you'd come back, and you'd need your things."
It should have been touching. Romantic, even. The devoted husband who couldn't let go.
Instead, it felt like a trap waiting to close.
"How did you know what sizes to buy?" Elara asked before she could stop herself.
Kairos blinked. "What?"
"If I disappeared three years ago, how do you know these clothes still fit? How do you know I haven't changed?"
She watched his face carefully, looking for the crack in the facade. For the moment he'd slip and reveal the lie.
But Kairos just smiled—sad and knowing. "Because I've seen you. Yesterday. You're exactly the same size you were three years ago. Same height, same build. Some things don't change."
The answer was smooth. Perfect. Completely plausible.
And yet.
They continued the tour. Leo's room, filled with toys and books and evidence of a childhood being lived. Guest rooms. A home office. A formal dining room that looked like it had never been used.
And then—the study.
Kairos's private sanctuary. Dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a massive desk that commanded the room. This space felt different from the rest of the house. More personal. More him.
Elara's eyes went immediately to the desk. To the locked drawer she remembered from yesterday.
"What's in there?" she asked, pointing.
Kairos's entire body went rigid. "Nothing you need to worry about."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting." His voice had gone cold, final. CEO voice. The voice of a man who didn't explain himself.
Elara moved closer to the desk, her eyes scanning the surface. Papers. Pens. A laptop. Normal office things.
And then she saw it.
A corner of paper sticking out from under the locked drawer. Burnt at the edges, the fire damage making the paper brittle and brown. But the words were still visible, typed in official-looking font:
...legal surrogate...
Her breath caught. Her entire world tilted.
"What does that say?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Kairos followed her gaze and his expression transformed. Panic flashed across his face—just for a second, quickly masked—before he moved with startling speed.
He closed the drawer with more force than necessary, the bang echoing through the study. The burnt paper disappeared from view.
"Private business matters," he said, his voice tight. "Nothing to do with you."
But they both knew that was a lie.
"Legal surrogate," Elara repeated, testing the words. "What does that mean? In what context would those words appear in your private documents?"
"Elara—"
"Tell me the truth." She stepped closer, searching his face for answers he refused to give. "Was I your wife? Or was I something else?"
The silence stretched between them, heavy with implications.
Finally, Kairos spoke, his voice carefully measured. "You were—are—my wife. The paperwork you saw relates to the pregnancy. The legal framework around paternity and custody. It's standard practice for high-net-worth individuals to have documentation in place. It doesn't mean what you think it means."
The explanation was smooth. Professional. Exactly the kind of thing a wealthy man would say about protecting his assets.
Except Leo wasn't an asset. He was a child. Their child, supposedly.
So why did those words—legal surrogate—make her skin crawl?
"I want to see the full document," Elara said.
"No."
"Why not? If it's just standard legal paperwork, why can't I see it?"
"Because it's private!" Kairos's control cracked, his voice rising. "Because I don't owe you access to every piece of paper in my possession. Because some things are mine, Elara. Mine to keep or destroy as I see fit."
The possession in his voice—the same possession she'd seen in that photograph, staring at the camera while her face was destroyed—made something cold settle in her stomach.
"I think I'd like to go back to my room," she said quietly.
Kairos's expression softened immediately, the crack in his control sealed over. "Of course. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—" He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly looking exhausted. "This is hard for both of us. I'm trying to give you space while also—I just want you to remember. To understand. To know that what we had was real."
He was good. So good at this. At the careful balance of vulnerability and strength, at making her feel guilty for doubting him even as every instinct screamed that something was desperately wrong.
"I know," she said, because what else could she say?
She left him standing in his study, surrounded by his secrets, and returned to her room—her room, not their room—to think.
THAT NIGHT
The dream came with the force of a freight train.
A cold office. Sterile white walls. A clipboard thrust into her hands by a woman in a business suit.
"Sign here, here, and here. Initial at the bottom."
Elara's hand moved automatically, signing her name over and over. Legal documents. Pages and pages of them.
"The procedure is simple," a doctor said, his voice clinical and detached. "Three times per cycle until conception occurs. No emotional attachment is required. In fact, it's discouraged."
"Will it hurt?" Her own voice, younger and more frightened than she remembered.
"Physically? Minimal discomfort. Emotionally?" The doctor shrugged. "That depends on your ability to maintain professional boundaries."
Flash forward. A hospital bed. Her body heavy and swollen. A contraction ripping through her, pain so intense she couldn't breathe.
And Kairos, standing in the corner of the room, watching her with cold, analytical eyes. Like she was a science experiment. A means to an end.
Not love. Never love.
Just transaction.
Elara woke gasping, her body drenched in sweat, her heart hammering against her ribs.
A dream. Just a dream.
Except it felt like a memory.
She heard movement outside her door and froze. Footsteps. Someone standing just on the other side of the wood, listening.
The doorknob turned slightly, testing. Not locked—she hadn't thought to lock it.
"Nightmare?" Kairos's voice came through the door, soft and concerned.
Elara's entire body went rigid. How long had he been standing there? Had he heard her gasping, crying out? Was he waiting outside her room like some kind of guard?
"I'm fine," she called back, trying to keep her voice steady.
The door opened anyway.
Kairos stood in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light, his face in shadow. He was shirtless, wearing only sleep pants, his body a study in controlled strength.
"You were crying," he said quietly. "I heard you from my room."
I heard you from my room—as if that explained everything. As if it was perfectly normal to monitor her sleep, to stand outside her door, to enter without permission.
"It was just a bad dream," Elara said, pulling the covers up like they could protect her from whatever was happening here.
Kairos moved into the room without invitation, sitting on the edge of her bed with the ease of someone who'd done it many times before. Maybe he had. Maybe this was their routine, their normal.
Or maybe it was another layer of the lie.
"What did you dream about?" he asked.
She couldn't tell him. Couldn't describe the sterile office and the clinical doctor and the sense of transaction instead of love.
"I don't remember," she lied.
His hand came up, brushing hair back from her face with devastating gentleness. "Did I have... did I have your baby?" she asked instead, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.
Kairos went very still. In the dim light, she couldn't read his expression, couldn't see if guilt flashed across his face or if she'd imagined the tension in his shoulders.
"Yes," he said finally.
"But I don't remember being pregnant. I don't remember labor, or—"
"Your body will remember before your mind does." His hand was still in her hair, fingers threading through the strands with possessive familiarity. "The doctors said trauma blocks conscious memory but leaves physical memory intact. Give it time."
He moved closer, and Elara's heart rate spiked. Fear or attraction, she couldn't tell anymore. Both, maybe. This man was dangerous—she knew it with bone-deep certainty. Dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with physical violence and everything to do with control.
But he was also devoted. Gentle with Leo. Patient with her confusion. Working so hard to make her feel safe even as her instincts screamed the opposite.
"I need you to trust me," Kairos said, his voice low and rough. "I know it's asking a lot. I know you don't remember. But I need you to believe that everything I'm doing is to protect you. To protect us. To give Leo his mother back."
His face was so close now, close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin, could see the genuine anguish in his eyes.
"I want to trust you," Elara whispered. And God help her, it was true. She wanted to believe in the fairy tale he was offering—devoted husband, beloved wife, happy family reunited.
But fairy tales didn't include destroyed photographs and locked drawers and documents that mentioned surrogates.
Kairos leaned in, and for one heart-stopping moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Claim her. Cross that final boundary.
Instead, he pressed his lips to her forehead—chaste, protective, heartbreakingly tender.
"Sleep," he murmured against her skin. "I'll be right outside if you need me."
He stood and moved to the door, and Elara watched him go with a confusing mixture of relief and disappointment.
"Kairos?" she called just before he left.
He paused, turning back.
"Why did you really marry me? If your family hated me so much, if I was nobody by their standards—why choose me?"
The question hung in the darkness between them.
Kairos was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of absolute truth. "Because you were the only person who ever looked at me and saw someone worth loving. Not my money. Not my name. Just... me."
He closed the door softly behind him.
And Elara lay in the darkness, torn between the man's words and her own screaming instincts, unable to tell which was real and which was lie.
THE NEXT MORNING
Elara was halfway through breakfast—Leo chattering away in his small voice, telling her about his favorite dinosaurs—when Kairos's assistant burst into the kitchen.
The woman was pale, professionally composed but clearly rattled. "Mr. Vance, I apologize for the interruption, but your mother is here. She's in the lobby and she's refusing to leave."
Every ounce of color drained from Kairos's face.
Then he went completely still.
It was the stillness of a predator before the strike. Dangerous. Lethal. The gentle father vanished, replaced by something that made Elara's blood run cold.
"Get her out," Kairos said, his voice deadly quiet. "I don't care how."
"Sir, she's insisting—"
"I said get her out!" The words came out sharp, commanding, allowing no argument.
Leo had gone silent, his small body tensing at his father's tone. He pressed closer to Elara, seeking comfort.
"Who is your mother?" Elara asked carefully, watching Kairos's face transform into something she'd never seen before. Pure, undiluted rage.
Kairos turned to look at her, and the expression in his eyes made every survival instinct she possessed scream in warning.
"The woman who almost killed you," he said, each word sharp as a blade. "And if she tries again, I will burn her entire existence to ash."
The threat wasn't empty. It wasn't hyperbole. It was a promise delivered with absolute certainty.
And Elara realized, watching him vibrate with barely controlled violence, that she'd just glimpsed the real Kairos Vance.
Not the devoted husband. Not the gentle father.
The monster underneath.
"She's here because she knows you're back," Kairos continued, his voice dropping to something that was almost a growl. "She's here to finish what she started three years ago. But she's going to learn very quickly that I'm not the same man I was then. That I will protect you with every resource, every connection, every weapon at my disposal."
He moved toward the kitchen door with predatory grace. "Stay here. Don't come downstairs. Don't let her see you."
"Kairos—"
He paused, looking back at her. For just a second, his expression softened. "I meant what I said. I will protect you. Even from my own family. Especially from my own family."
Then he was gone, leaving Elara alone with Leo and a thousand new questions.
The boy looked up at her with wide, frightened eyes. "Is the bad lady back?" he whispered.
Elara's blood ran cold. "You know her? Kairos's mother?"
Leo nodded, pressing even closer. "She's mean. She made Daddy cry. She made Mama go away."
She made Mama go away.
Not an accident. Not a random tragedy.
She made Mama go away.
Which meant everything Kairos had told her about loving her, protecting her, fighting for her—might actually be true.
Or it meant he was such a skilled manipulator that he'd taught his own son to lie.
From somewhere in the house below, Elara heard raised voices. Kairos, shouting. A woman's voice, shrill and venomous, shouting back.
And Leo, trembling in her arms, whispered the words that changed everything:
"Don't let her take you away again, Mama. Please don't go."