At thirty-five, Adrian carried the kind of presence that turned heads without effort. His tailored suit fit perfectly, his posture straight, his expression composed—but his eyes, dark and observant, missed very little.
Noah spotted him immediately.
“Daddy!” the boy squealed, wriggling out of Emma’s arms and running toward him.
Adrian’s face softened the moment he bent down and scooped his son up.
But Noah didn’t settle.
Instead, he twisted around, pointing urgently back at Emma.
“Daddy! I want her! I want Emma to be my mommy!”
The words rang out with the pure, unfiltered honesty only a child could have.
Adrian froze.
For a brief second, the world seemed to tilt.
But then he followed Noah’s pointing finger—and saw Emma.
Her eyes were red.
Her cheeks still wet.
Her entire posture looked like someone barely holding themselves together.
Concern replaced his surprise instantly.
He walked toward her, still holding Noah.
“Emma,” he said gently. “What happened? Why are you crying?”
She lowered her gaze, trying to steady her breathing, but the moment she opened her mouth, the words came out in a rush.