I used to think silence meant peace.
Now, it only means we're listening too closely to each other breathe.
The penthouse has its own kind of music, the low hum of the city below, the soft chime of the elevator, the echo of footsteps on marble that never lets you forget who built it.
It's a beautiful place, too beautiful, glass walls opening to the skyline, everything trimmed in quiet luxury. But every mirror, every sleek surface feels like it's watching me.
Like it's reminding me: you don't belong here.
The twins don't seem to notice. They've adapted with a speed that should've comforted me but somehow doesn't.
Zane loves the open view, he presses his face against the glass every morning, naming buildings like they're constellations. Zara fills every corner with laughter. She talks to the housekeeper, to the maids, to Alexander. Especially to Alexander.
And he, he listens.
That's what scares me most.
I see him with them and I can't reconcile the man who once ruled my body like a storm with the one kneeling on the floor to tie Zara's shoelaces.
He's patient with her clumsiness.
Gentle with Zane's questions.
Measured even when they climb onto his lap mid-call, breaking through his armor with the simple arrogance of children who've never been taught to fear love.
He looks up at me sometimes when he thinks I'm not watching, eyes unreadable, a thousand unsaid things flickering just behind restraint.
And when our eyes meet, I forget to breathe.
Because I remember everything.
The way he once touched me like prayer and punishment, the sound of his voice in the dark, the promises we never said but both heard anyway.
I remember running, not because I wanted to, but because staying meant breaking.
Now I'm back. Under his roof. Sharing his air.
Pretending it's for the twins when part of me knows it's more complicated than that.
Breakfast is chaos. The good kind, the kind that smells of cinnamon and coffee, of laughter spilled over too much sugar. Zara insists her pancakes look like clouds. Zane wants his shaped like stars.
Alexander stands at the counter, sleeves rolled up, forearms tense as he tries to keep up with them.
The sight would've been ridiculous if it weren't so, disarming.
"Stars don't look like that," Zane says seriously.
"They do if you're hungry enough," Alexander replies.
I almost smile. Almost.
He catches it. I see it in the way his gaze flicks to mine, brief but electric.
A spark, old and familiar, buried deep but never gone.
He doesn't say anything. Neither do I.
But the air thickens, the kind of silence that hums between people who used to know how to undress each other with words alone.
The twins interrupt it, as they always do. Zara tugs at his sleeve, demanding syrup. Zane points out the crooked edge of his pancake.
Alexander laughs, actually laughs, and it hits me harder than I want to admit.
It's not the polished laugh I remember from parties and interviews. It's softer. Rawer.
And I realize, with a slow kind of dread, that this is who he could've been, the man he might've become if I hadn't run.
Later, when the twins nap, I find him in his study.
The room smells like cedar and discipline. Shelves full of books he probably hasn't opened in years. The window blinds half-drawn against the afternoon sun.
He's at his desk, reading something on his tablet, shirt slightly unbuttoned, tie loosened.
I stand by the doorway. "You're supposed to rest too."
Without looking up, he says, "I don't know how."
It's not arrogance, just truth.
"Zane told me you showed him how to build a paper airplane," I say, crossing my arms. "He thinks you're some kind of hero."
"Good," he murmurs. "Every boy should think his father is."
"Don't start claiming victories you haven't earned yet."
Now he looks up, eyes dark, slow, patient. "You think I'm trying to?"
"I think you don't know how to want something without owning it."
He sets the tablet down. "And you don't know how to accept what's already yours."
The words hang there, thick and heavy.
I turn to leave, but he says my name, soft, low, dangerous.
"Selene."
I pause, half-lit by the doorframe.
He stands, moves closer. Not fast, not threatening, just enough to feel the air shift.
He stops when he's close enough for me to feel his breath near my neck.
"I'm not the man I was six years ago," he says.
"Maybe not," I whisper. "But you still speak like him."
His mouth tilts, not quite a smile. "Then maybe you still hear me the same way."
I step back before memory can swallow me whole. "Don't."
He nods once, eyes softening. "I won't. Not yet."
The days start bleeding together.
Every morning, the twins wake him before I do, Zane knocking at his door, Zara jumping onto his bed.
Every night, I hear him reading them stories, his voice low and steady.
And every time I tell myself it's good for them, it's normal, it's temporary, something inside me whispers, then why does it feel like home?
I begin to forget how to breathe without waiting for him to walk into a room.
And maybe that's his real power, not the control, not the threats, but the way he fills space just by existing.
It's late when I overhear him.
I'm walking back from the twins' room, the hallway dim except for the faint glow spilling from his office.
His voice is quiet, the tone he uses when he's not negotiating, not commanding. Something more personal.
"Yes," he says into the phone, "they're fine. They're here."
A pause.
Then softer, lower, almost a sigh:
"She's here too. Finally."
My steps slow.
"I told you, I won't lose them again," he continues. "Not her. Not the twins. They're mine."
The words hit like glass cracking beneath bare feet.
I don't move. Don't breathe.
Mine.
Possession.
Promise.
Prayer.
All tangled in one word.
The tone isn't cruel. It's not even cold. It's something far worse, intimate. Unshakable.
He says it like he's reclaiming oxygen. Like the last six years were just a held breath.
I back away quietly before he notices.
Back to my room, where the walls suddenly feel smaller, closer.
Because part of me wants to hate him for it, for the arrogance, for the claim.
But another part, the one I buried, wants to believe him.
Wants to be his.
And that's what terrifies me most.
I dream of him that night, not the man from boardrooms, but the one who used to trace poetry against my skin. The one who said my name like a confession.
I wake up before dawn, chest tight, breath uneven.
The city outside glows faintly through the rain.
Somewhere down the hall, I hear movement, his voice, low, speaking to someone again. Maybe himself. Maybe the universe.
I press a hand to my heart, as though I could command it to be still.
But it beats too loud, too fast…
like it's remembering the rhythm of his.
The next morning, the twins find me at the table, trying to look like I slept.
"Mommy," Zara says, climbing onto my lap, "Daddy says we can go to the park later!"
For a heartbeat, everything stops.
Daddy.
Alexander walks in just then, casual in black, coffee in hand, expression unreadable.
But when his eyes meet mine, there's the faintest glint of triumph, quiet, restrained, almost tender.
He doesn't say a word.
He doesn't need to.
Because in that single moment, I understand…
he's already winning.
Not with power.
Not with force.
But with presence.
And that is how Alexander Knight conquers,
not by demanding,
but by simply being impossible to forget.
That night, I stand by the window again, watching the city burn in gold below.
He walks up behind me, the space between us a thread.
"You heard me yesterday, didn't you?" he says softly.
I don't answer.
"I meant it," he continues. "You can fight me, Selene. But I don't let go of what's mine."
I close my eyes. The word mine shouldn't make my pulse trip, but it does.
He steps closer, his voice a whisper against my hair. "Go ahead. Hate me if you need to. But don't pretend you don't feel this too."
When I finally turn, our faces are inches apart.
His eyes hold that quiet storm, possessive, aching, alive.
And before I can stop myself, I whisper, "Then maybe it's time you learn, not everything that's yours stays."
He smiles faintly, like a man who's just been warned of war and accepted the invitation.
"Then, Selene," he murmurs, "let's see how long you can stand living with your enemy."
And outside, as the rain begins again, the city lights blur,
two reflections caught in the same glass,
neither willing to look away first.