Chapter 2
1741words
Ilara forced herself to focus, scribbling notes with mechanical precision.
But her traitorous senses recorded everything—his long fingers drumming lightly on the table, the understated Patek Philippe on his wrist, even his scent—cedar and faint tobacco, achingly familiar yet now foreign...
Every detail branded itself into her consciousness.
The firm's presentation began. Old Henry launched into his overview with practiced ease. As lead designer, Ilara would need to elaborate on key concepts when prompted.
There would be no escape.
When Henry gestured to her, Ilara inhaled sharply, the air like broken glass in her lungs. She raised her head, wishing desperately for invisibility.
Her eyes collided with his at the table's end.
Boom—
The world went silent and colorless.
Killian was looking at her.
Behind his eyes churned a maelstrom powerful enough to drown in. When recognition hit, something in those depths contracted violently—a change so subtle and swift it might have been imaginary. But Ilara caught it.
Shock. Disbelief. And something else—something ruthlessly suppressed, something dangerously close to pain.
It lasted less than a heartbeat.
Then his expression froze over again, as though the crack in his armor had never existed.
He regarded her as if she were a perfect stranger, yet the intensity of his stare pinned her like an insect to a board.
He hadn't forgotten her.
This terrified her more than if he had.
An invisible vise gripped Ilara's throat, her carefully prepared words dying unspoken. Her heart hammered against her ribs, each thunderous beat threatening to topple her.
Time stretched to infinity.
A suffocating silence descended. Everyone sensed the strange tension and held their breath, waiting.
Killian's lips parted slightly, as if words fought to escape.
Ilara closed her eyes in despair.
But he said nothing. He simply shifted his gaze to the design plans on the main screen and spoke in a voice devoid of even the faintest emotion:
"Continue."
That single word felt simultaneously like mercy and the cruelest punishment.
Ilara opened her eyes, feeling as though she'd been drowning and suddenly yanked to the surface. Somehow, she stumbled through her presentation in a trance-like state. Throughout the endless hour that followed, she felt his razor-sharp gaze tracking her every movement, leaving nowhere to hide.
When the meeting finally ended, Ilara nearly bolted, desperate to escape the suffocating pressure.
"Miss Valentine."
That glacial voice pronounced her surname with perfect precision.
Ilara's feet froze mid-step, as if nailed to the floor.
She turned around with mechanical slowness.
Killian towered over her, his shadow swallowing her whole. His face remained expressionless, but in his eyes, a storm was brewing.
He stepped closer, his voice a frigid whisper meant for her ears alone:
"Five o'clock. My office. We need to talk. Privately."
* * *
The corridor to Killian's office stretched endlessly—a cold, marble path to her own execution.
Her colleagues had departed; old Henry had shot her a concerned but helpless glance before leaving.
Killian's assistant waited at the office door, her smile professionally flawless. "Miss Valentine, Mr. Davenport is expecting you."
She pushed open the massive ebony door.
The space beyond stole her breath.
Less office than sky fortress, the space was twice the size of her entire apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides commanded New York's skyline like a conquered territory. The setting sun gilded the steel jungle with molten gold, a breathtaking display of power and beauty.
The massive ebony desk held nothing but a sleek computer. Nearby, Italian leather sofas with severe, clean lines were arranged with mathematical precision, like a geometry problem made real.
Killian stood with his back to her, a dark silhouette against the blazing sunset, radiating solitary power.
At the sound of the door, he turned slowly.
Without witnesses, his icy mask fell away. His eyes no longer held calculated coldness but a tempest that had been building for five years—now threatening to break free. Rage, questions, and a pain so deep he himself seemed unaware of it formed a net that instantly trapped Ilara.
"You dare to come back."
His quiet words seemed forced through clenched teeth, each one a hammer blow to her heart.
Ilara's heart clenched. She dug her nails into her palms, using the pain to stay focused. "Killian, I—"
"Don't say my name." He cut her off savagely, advancing. His overwhelming presence forced her back a half-step. "You've lost that right."
"I'm here professionally." Ilara forced herself to meet those soul-devouring eyes. "I'm the architect from the firm, Mr. Davenport. If you have questions about our proposal, I'm happy to address them."
She tried to shield herself with professionalism, but before him, it was as substantial as mist.
"Architect?" Killian's laugh was short and bitter. "Drop the act, Ilara. Did you think five years would erase everything? Did you think a new last name would let you pretend we never happened?"
He moved closer.
Ilara backed away until the cold glass wall stopped her retreat.
Nowhere left to run.
He had her cornered.
One arm braced against the wall by her ear, he caged her between his body and the glass. He leaned in, his face inches from hers, the fire in his eyes nearly scorching her skin. This close, his cedar scent—once her favorite addiction—now felt toxic, paralyzing her.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough with barely contained fury.
Ilara had no choice but to meet his gaze.
"Tell me why," his voice dropped dangerously low. "Five years ago—why did you vanish without a word? No call, no email, not even a goddamn note. You just evaporated from my life. Why!"
The final word exploded from him.
Pain and resentment bottled up for precisely one thousand eight hundred days erupted in that moment. He wasn't the untouchable CEO now—just a man gutted by the woman he loved, who'd never even given him a reason.
Ilara trembled, overwhelmed by his rage. The memories she'd deliberately buried—too painful to revisit—were ripped open and exposed like a fresh wound.
Why?
Could she tell him? About his elegant mother tossing a check at her like scraps to a stray? About the venomous threats against her family? How she'd left to protect him and salvage what little dignity she had left?
She couldn't.
Telling the truth would mean exposing her most humiliating wound for his inspection.
Better his hatred than his pity.
"There is no why." Ilara turned away, her voice glacial. "We're over. It's that simple."
"Simple?" Killian seized her chin, forcing her face toward his. His fingers were ice-cold but his grip bruising. "You call that simple? Do you even have a heart, Ilara?"
"A heart?" Ilara laughed bitterly as five years of resentment finally found voice. She wrenched free from his grip, tears and fury blazing in her eyes. "What gives you the right, Killian Davenport? You have no idea what I went through! Were your feelings ever real?"
"Shut up!"
"Did I hit a nerve?" Ilara's control snapped completely. Like a cornered animal, she attacked. "What was I to your elite circle? The charity case? The gold-digger with delusions of grandeur?"
"You think I didn't know what they said? You think I wasn't trying to protect you?" Killian's eyes reddened with pain. "I defended you constantly! No one dared insult you to my face! I was still building my power base then, Ilara! I needed time to secure our position! I thought we had forever!"
"Time?" Ilara's smile was acid. "Your precious time was too expensive for me. I did you a favor by leaving—removed the biggest roadblock to your glorious future."
"So you admit it," Killian's voice turned to ice. "You left because of money and status. Because I couldn't give you the lifestyle you wanted fast enough."
"Think whatever you want." Ilara's heart sank as she abandoned all hope of understanding.
Let him believe what he needed to believe.
The gulf between them had grown too wide for words to cross.
A shrill ringtone sliced through the suffocating tension.
Ilara's phone.
She seized it like a drowning woman grabbing a rope, shoving Killian aside to pull it from her pocket.
"Sunflower Daycare Center" flashed on the screen.
Her heart plummeted, dread washing over her. The daycare would never call at this hour unless—
"Annie? What's wrong?" She fought to steady her voice, but couldn't hide the tremor.
Killian stood back, watching her with an inscrutable expression.
"...What? Allergic reaction? How severe? Is he breathing okay?" Ilara's voice rose sharply, her face draining of color. All pretense vanished, leaving only raw maternal terror. "How did this happen?"
The teacher explained frantically while Ilara grabbed her bag, words tumbling out: "I'm coming right now! Give him the emergency meds—blue backpack, front pocket—"
She spun toward the door but was caught by an iron grip on her wrist.
"Let go!" She whirled to face Killian's piercing stare, nearly screaming. "My son needs me—I have to get to the hospital!"
"Son?" Killian's grip tightened. "You're married?"
His eyes flashed with jealousy and betrayal.
How could she have moved on so quickly? Found someone else to build a family with?
What had he been to her?
"Let GO!" Ilara wrenched free and bolted for the door.
Killian stood frozen for a moment, then strode after her. "Take my car."
* * *
Killian couldn't remember the last time Ilara had sat in his passenger seat—it felt like another lifetime.
At the hospital entrance, Ilara reached for the door handle, but his hand shot out, gripping her arm.
His eyes fixed on her heaving chest as she panted with panic. His voice was unnaturally calm. "What happened to your son?"
"Allergic reaction." Ilara fumbled with her phone, trying to call the hospital.
"To what?"
"Peanuts! He has severe peanut allergies!" Tears of frustration welled in her eyes. "What are you doing? Let me go!"
Peanuts.
At that word, Killian's hand trembled imperceptibly.
Both he and his father were allergic to peanuts—a hereditary trait. Any son of his would likely share the same allergy.
Five years ago, she vanished without warning.
Five years later, she returned with an enormous secret.
A son.
A son with a severe peanut allergy.
Time froze. All the fragments, all the clues, all the inexplicable details suddenly aligned with devastating clarity.
.
