The night he came for me, the rain had stopped.
But the world still smelled like it, that metallic promise of thunder lingering in the air, the kind that made silence feel like warning.
I was folding laundry in the tiny apartment when the knock came.
Three measured taps. No impatience. No hurry. Just certainty.
I didn't need to look through the peephole. My body already knew.
When I opened the door, Alexander Knight filled the doorway like the end of something.
A dark suit, a darker gaze. He didn't bother with pretense.
"Pack a bag," he said.
I stared at him. "You can't be serious."
He stepped inside without permission, the scent of rain and wealth colliding with the faint detergent in my small, lived-in air. His presence bent the room.
"Do I look like I'm joking?" he asked softly.
"Alexander, this is my home."
"No, Selene," he said. "This is your hiding place."
I wanted to hit him. I wanted to slam the door and make him vanish like smoke. But anger, with him, was always dangerous, it turned into something else far too easily.
I crossed my arms. "You can't force me to live with you."
"I can," he said. "And I will."
"On what grounds?"
He looked around the small apartment, taking in every detail, the chipped mug on the counter, the twin drawings taped to the fridge, the soft, worn blanket folded neatly on the couch. Evidence of a life built out of necessity, not luxury.
"On the grounds that you're exhausted," he said quietly. "And they deserve better than this."
The words sliced deep because they weren't entirely wrong.
"Better doesn't mean richer," I snapped.
"No," he said. "It means safer."
I drew in a breath, steady and sharp. "You think money makes people safe?"
"I think proximity does."
I froze. "Proximity?"
He met my eyes. "To me."
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
"You're unbelievable."
"Practical," he corrected. "There's a difference."
"Practical men don't invade homes."
"Practical men protect what's theirs."
I hated the way his words sounded, not cruel, not loud, but final.
He glanced toward the small bedroom where light spilled under the door. His voice dropped.
"I'll make this simple. You move in with me, now, or tomorrow morning, I'll file for emergency custody."
The air thinned. My pulse hammered.
"You wouldn't dare."
He stepped closer, until his shadow merged with mine. "Try me."
I wanted to scream. Instead, I whispered, "You don't understand what you're doing."
"Oh, I understand perfectly." He tilted his head, his voice almost gentle. "You've raised them alone, and you've done it well. But you're not going to do it without me anymore."
"Alexander…"
He cut me off softly. "Pack a bag, Selene."
I didn't move. I couldn't.
His eyes softened, the faintest ache threading through the steel. "I'm not the monster you remember."
I almost laughed. "No. You're worse. Monsters don't think they're right."
That hurt him. I saw it. The small flicker in his gaze before it vanished.
He exhaled slowly. "This isn't about us."
"Everything's about us," I said. "That's the problem."
He turned away then, as if to give me a choice. He didn't need to, the choice was already gone.
Behind the door, I heard Zane's laugh. Zara's voice followed, a soft sing-song hum that made my heart ache.
I couldn't risk them. I couldn't let their names end up in a courtroom transcript.
When I finally spoke, my voice was small. "They'll need to sleep in their own rooms."
His head turned slightly. "They already have them."
That stopped me. "You planned this?"
He looked back over his shoulder, unapologetic. "I don't improvise when it comes to what's mine."
I hated him then, for being so sure, for knowing exactly how to win.
And I hated myself more for the part of me that wanted to believe safety might look like his arms again.
I packed.
Just one bag, because pride demanded at least that much dignity. Clothes, their favorite storybook, a worn plush fox with one ear missing. The quiet of small decisions before surrender.
When I emerged, Alexander was standing by the window, watching the city lights like they'd confessed something to him.
He didn't speak when I handed him the bag. Just nodded once and opened the door.
The elevator ride down was silent except for the hum of electricity and the faint scent of his cologne — memory and sin and something that almost felt like home.
Outside, the car waited. The driver stepped out to open the door, but Alexander waved him off. He held it open himself.
"After you," he said.
I hesitated. "This doesn't make you right."
"No," he said quietly. "It makes you safe."
The city blurred past in silence, glass towers, wet streets, reflections of strangers. The twins slept in the back, their heads leaning against each other, unbothered by the storm between us.
I watched them through the rearview mirror. Their faces looked peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Alexander's reflection was a contrast, sharp jawline, eyes fixed forward, a man driving through his own conviction like it was a highway with no exits.
When we reached his building, the guards bowed as if welcoming royalty. The elevator that took us to the penthouse was lined with mirrors, all of them showing too much truth.
I looked like a woman on trial.
He looked like the judge who'd already decided the verdict.
The doors opened to silence and space.
The penthouse stretched like a museum, high glass, polished marble, shadows softened by warm light. But it wasn't sterile. It was… lived in.
There were toys near the window. Small, bright things that looked painfully out of place in a billionaire's world. A wooden train. A stack of books. Two rooms down the hall with painted doors, one blue, one pale rose.
I turned to him. "You really did plan this."
He met my eyes, unapologetic. "I told you. I don't bluff."
The twins ran ahead, laughter echoing against glass and marble. Zara's curls bounced as she darted into her new room; Zane's voice rose in wonder at the view.
Their joy cracked something open in me, something soft, dangerous.
I turned away so he wouldn't see the tears threatening to surface.
Alexander walked past me, unhurried, his tone deceptively calm. "You can take the guest suite next to them. Unless you prefer…"
"I'll take it," I cut in quickly.
His mouth curved slightly. "As you wish."
I exhaled. "Let's get one thing clear. This arrangement is temporary."
He didn't argue. He just said, "You've said that before."
I turned to him sharply. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Act like you know how this ends."
He studied me, the faintest warmth in his eyes. "I don't. That's why I'm making sure you stay long enough for me to find out."
He walked away before I could reply, his footsteps soft against marble. The kind of exit only powerful men could afford.
I stood there for a long time, the city beyond the glass reflecting both of us in fractured light, the woman who ran, and the man who refused to stop following.
Later, when the twins had fallen asleep in their new rooms, I stood by the balcony, watching the skyline flicker like a wound that refused to close.
The door opened behind me. I didn't turn.
"You hate me right now," Alexander said. His voice was quieter than I'd ever heard it.
"Yes."
"Good."
I almost smiled. "You sound proud of that."
He came closer, until his reflection joined mine in the glass. "I'm proud that you still feel anything at all."
I closed my eyes. "Don't mistake anger for love."
He was silent for a long moment. Then, softly: "I don't. I just know they came from both."
I turned then, slow, deliberate. "You can't rewrite history."
"I'm not trying to," he said. "I'm writing what comes next."
Our eyes held, the kind of look that belonged to unfinished things.
He stepped closer. I didn't move back.
He didn't touch me, but I could feel the heat from his body, that cruel, magnetic pull of someone who'd once known every way to make me come undone.
He said quietly, "Get used to this view. You're not running anymore."
And with that, he left the balcony, leaving the echo of his footsteps to fill the night.
I stood there long after he was gone, the city whispering below, the stars cold and indifferent.
Maybe I had lost.
Or maybe I had just begun to fight differently.
But one truth settled heavy in my chest as I looked toward the hallway where my children slept—
He wasn't wrong.
The storm had moved us here for a reason.
And whether I wanted it or not, I was home.