The aisle of the Boeing 737 felt narrower than it should have. Damon Prescott—a man whose presence alone could clear a boardroom of multi-million-dollar investors—found himself standing awkwardly beside row twenty-eight, pinned by the collective, curious stares of half the economy cabin.

Violet had fallen asleep against Cassandra’s shoulder, her little thumb tucked securely in her mouth. Luke stood between Damon and Cassandra, clutching Damon’s index finger with a grip surprisingly strong for a two-year-old.

When the elevator doors slid open, they stepped into a cavernous, glass-walled penthouse that spanned the entire top floor of the building. The city lights of Denver sparkled below like a sprawling bed of diamonds, casting long, dramatic shadows across the minimalist, high-tech interior.

Cassandra stepped out and looked around, her expression unreadable.

“Nice place,” she said flatly, the sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Cold. Sterile. Exactly what I’d expect from a man who lives behind screens.”

“It’s a place to sleep,” Damon said, setting the diaper bag down on a leather designer sofa. “Marcus will bring up the stroller and car seats. There are guest rooms down the hall. I’ll have housekeeping prep one for you and the twins.”

“We won’t be needing housekeeping, Damon. We’ll be leaving as soon as the sun comes up.”

“Will you?” Damon walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, pouring himself a finger of scotch from a crystal decanter. He didn't turn around, but he could hear her footsteps shifting nervously on the hardwood floor. “You think you can just drop back into my life on a Christmas Eve flight, show me two children who have my face, and walk away like nothing happened?”

“I didn't drop back into your life!” Cassandra raised her voice, careful not to wake Violet. “You were the one yelling at a flight attendant three rows away! You were the one who couldn't mind his own business!”

Damon turned around, his amber glass in hand. His green eyes—the exact duplicate of the ones blinking sleepily at him from the sofa—locked onto hers.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

The anger drained out of Cassandra, leaving her looking suddenly fragile under the harsh city lights. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, shivering slightly despite the climate-controlled warmth of the penthouse.

“Because you didn't want them, Damon,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You were so obsessed with proving yourself, with building an empire out of spite because your family lost everything when you were kids. If I had told you I was pregnant, you would have stayed out of obligation. You would have looked at me every day with resentment, wishing you were in Seattle building your software empire instead of changing diapers in a cramped apartment.”

Damon set his glass down so hard the crystal cracked.

In two long strides, he crossed the room and stood towering over her. Cassandra didn't flinch, though her breath hitched.

“Obligation?” Damon hissed, his voice trembling with a fury that had nothing to do with business. “You think I would have looked at our child with resentment? Cassandra, look at me.”

He reached out, his warm fingers gently catching her chin, forcing her to look up at him.

“I built this entire empire because I thought money could protect me from ever feeling helpless again,” Damon said, his voice dropping to a rough, vulnerable register. “The day my sister died in that hospital... I swore I’d never be powerless. But standing there watching you walk away three years ago? I was more powerless than I had ever been in my life.”

Cassandra’s lower lip trembled. A single tear broke free, tracking down her cheek.

“You changed your number, Damon.”

“Because I was a coward,” he admitted, the confession tasting like ash in his mouth. “I thought if I cut you out completely, the pain would stop. It didn't. Every single day, I walked through this empty palace and wondered if you were out there hating me.”

“I didn't hate you,” Cassandra whispered, her eyes shining in the dim light. “I just... I just wanted to breathe without feeling like I was an item on your checklist.”

Before Damon could pull her into his arms, the grandfather clock in the corner chimed softly.

Midnight.

Across the room, Damon’s encrypted work phone on the sleek glass coffee table began to buzz violently, flashing red.