And she was gone, leaving him standing on the sidewalk, clutching the paper and understanding, for the first time, that his empire meant nothing compared to three boys who didn’t know he existed.
That night he didn’t sleep. His penthouse felt cavernous and empty. The next day, he arrived at the café early. Isabella wasted no time.
“They’re Ethan, Noah, and Lucas. They’re six,” she said. “And yes. They’re your sons.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, throat tight. “You knew where I was. I’m not exactly hard to find.”
She let out a bitter laugh. “I tried. I called. I went to your office when I was four months pregnant. Security threw me out. They said you were in a ‘critical’ meeting and didn’t have time for old relationships. I emailed you. Nothing. I figured you’d chosen your career—like always.”
The memory hit him hard. Back then, obsessed with expanding internationally, he had ordered his staff to filter out all “personal distractions.” He had erased her.
“I want to know them,” he said quietly. “I want to be their father.”
“Being a father isn’t writing checks,” she shot back. “It’s showing up when they’re sick. When they’re scared. You don’t know how to do that.”