Roseline's POV
The gates opened slowly, and Roseline drove in with her heart climbing into her throat. Every second felt heavier than the last. She didn't expect it to hurt this much—to see his world, his home, everything he built without her.
She pulled up quietly and parked beside the neatly trimmed hedges, her eyes scanning the mansion in front of her. For a second, she couldn't breathe. She stepped out and leaned against the car, her heels sinking slightly into the pavement, but she didn't move. She couldn't.
This was Kayden's house.
Her son's house.
And she didn't know who he was anymore.
The security guard had said he wasn't home—still on his honeymoon. This single word twisted in her gut.
He was married now.security guard had said he wasn't home—still on his honeymoon. That
She had read on the blogs about it.
She had missed it. All of it.
Her eyes stung, but she blinked quickly and looked away. This wasn't the time to cry. She had done enough of that over the years—silently, behind closed doors, in between late-night news articles about her son's rising empire.
Roseline folded her arms and stared at the house. A part of her still couldn't believe she was here. After all this time. After all the guilt, the shame, the unanswered questions. She never thought she'd stand in front of his house—the same boy she used to rock to sleep, the same one she left behind.
And that memory? It haunted her.
Not because she stopped loving him.
But because she couldn't protect him.
Everyone thought she left because she didn't want the responsibility. Even Kayden believed that. But he didn't know what it felt like to wake up every morning hoping his father wouldn't raise his voice—or his hands. He didn't know what it felt like to sleep with one eye open.
She left because she was dying slowly, inside that house. And one day, she just… left. Took the risk. Chose herself. But the price? It had been too high. She lost him.
Now, she was trying to find the courage to face him.
Thirty minutes had passed since she arrived. The silence around her only made her thoughts louder. She wondered what he'd say. If he'd scream. If he'd turn his back. She wondered if he still remembered the way she used to sing to him when he had trouble sleeping. If he still hated her for choosing peace over presence.
Then—movement.
A black car pulled into the driveway.
Her breath caught. She knew it was him.
Roseline pushed herself off the car and stood straight, brushing her coat with shaky fingers. Her heart was racing.
The car stopped. The door opened.
And then—he stepped out.
Tall. Sharp suit. That same cold look his father used to wear when angry.
He spotted her instantly. His entire body went still. No smile. No warmth. Just… rage.
His jaw clenched. His nostrils flared.
And then, with a voice low but sharp enough to cut through glass, he snapped—
" What the hell are you doing here?"
"I thought we should talk," she said, her voice calm but tight, as if each word cost her something.
Kayden's foot barely touched the ground before his entire body stiffened. His jaw ticked, lips pulling back in a harsh scoff. He didn't even give her the decency of finishing her sentence.
"There is nothing to talk to you about," he barked, voice laced with fury. "I want you out of my house, this minute."
His words echoed across the wide driveway, sharp enough to slice through steel. Bianca's breath hitched. She'd never seen him like this—not even in the worst of their arguments. This was deeper. Raw. Wounded. Ugly.
His mother flinched, but didn't speak. She just stood there, hands by her sides, fingers twitching like they were unsure whether to reach out or retreat.
Bianca couldn't take it anymore.
"Kayden," she called, stepping forward, her voice trembling but firm. "She's still your mother. The least you could do is hear what she has to say."
He spun around, his glare sharp and direct. His voice dropped, low and biting.
"This doesn't have anything to do with you. Stay out of it."
Bianca froze. His tone had never held that edge when directed at her. It stung.
Without waiting for another word, Kayden turned and marched toward the mansion. The staff, already lined up respectfully near the doorway, offered greetings—but he brushed past them like they didn't exist. The doors swung open, swallowed him whole, and slammed shut behind him with a hollow thud.
Silence settled.
Bianca slowly turned to the woman still standing near the car. Her posture was straight, chin high, but her eyes gave her away. They shimmered—not from tears, but from memories, years of them, threatening to break through the mask she wore.
Bianca offered a small, kind smile, trying to bridge the gap.
"Sorry about that…" she said gently. "You can come in."
Roseline—still standing like she didn't know whether to run or stay—nodded slowly. Her heels clicked softly on the stone driveway as she followed Bianca toward the house, each step weighed down by everything she'd missed, everything she wanted to explain… and everything she wasn't sure he'd ever be ready to hear.
Bianca led the way inside, her heels tapping softly against the marble floor, a subtle contrast to the storm swirling around them. Kayden walked ahead, his long strides sharp, angry. His mother—Roseline—followed behind, every step weighed down with years of guilt, silence, and memories that clung like ghosts.
The grand foyer of the mansion was immaculate, with tall ceilings and warm lighting that cast a soft glow on the expensive decor. The scent of fresh linen and citrus cleaner hung in the air— sterile, spotless. Nothing like the home she'd once kept, clustered with tiny shoes and bedtime lullabies.
Everything about the mansion screamed power, success, legacy. Everything her son had built without her.
Kayden didn't offer a seat. He just stood there, back rigid, chest rising and falling with slow, heavy breaths.
Roseline took in the details: the dark wood staircase, the art on the walls, the massive chandelier glimmering overhead. Her gaze fell on a small table near the hallway. A photo frame sat there—Kayden as a boy, maybe six or seven, sitting on his father's shoulders, laughing.
She moved closer, fingers brushing the edge of the frame.
"Don't touch that," Kayden snapped, his voice sharp.
Roseline froze, hand still hovering.
He stepped forward, snatching the frame and setting it down harshly.
"What the hell do you want from me?" he barked. "To stroll in here after decades and play mother? Is that it?
Bianca took a breath, She looked at Roseline, then gestured toward the living room. "Please, sit."
Roseline nodded faintly and walked toward the sofa, lowering herself carefully onto it. Her body felt heavier than usual, like the guilt itself had weight. Bianca disappeared for a moment into the kitchen, returning with a glass of water. Roseline accepted it with a quiet, "Thank you."
Kayden remained standing, arms crossed, his back to the room as he stared out one of the tall windows. His profile was tense, jawline tight, the muscles in his shoulders coiled.
Silence settled in again. Thick. Uncomfortable.
Roseline looked at her son. Really looked. The way his features had sharpened, how much he resembled his father—and how much he didn't.
She tried to gather herself, breathing in deeply. "You think I left because I didn't love you."
Kayden didn't move.
"I didn't. I left because I had to. Because if I didn't, I wouldn't be standing here today."
He scoffed, turning around slowly. "Oh, don't start with the dramatics. You left a seven-year-old boy waiting on a porch. You promised me a toy car."
His voice cracked slightly on the last word, but he masked it with a bitter laugh.
"You were gone for a week. And then forever."
Roseline swallowed hard. "I know. And I will never forgive myself for it. But your father... Kayden, he wasn't the man you remember."
"He raised me."
"Yes. And he beat me. Cheated on me. Made me feel worthless every single day."
Bianca blinked from the side, stunned into silence.
Kayden stared at her. "You're lying."
"I'm not," Roseline responded.
She swallowed thickly, hands trembling at her sides as the memory came rushing in, uninvited.
"There was this one night," she began quietly, her voice almost lost in the grandness of the living room. Her eyes didn't meet Kayden's, but her tone was steady now, deliberate. "I had suspected for months that he was seeing someone else. Again. But this time… it was my friend. My best friend, Gloria."
Bianca's breath hitched slightly, the name hanging in the air.
"I confronted him. I waited until you were asleep," she said, eyes far away now. "He walked in late, reeking of her perfume. Like he didn't even bother to hide it. And I asked him, 'How could you?' Not with anger. Just... disbelief. Hurt."
Her jaw clenched, and her voice tightened.
"He didn't say a word. Not one. Just walked over to me and slapped me so hard I fell over the center table. My ears rang for days."
Kayden's expression didn't shift, but his hands balled into fists.
"I thought he was done. But he wasn't. He dragged me by the hair, kicked me in the ribs, and told me I had no right—no right—to question him. That I should be grateful he put a roof over my head."
She paused, blinked slowly. Her voice wavered but didn't break.
"I laid there all night. In pain. Humiliated. And terrified.
"I stayed for as long as I could. I tried to make it work for you. But one day, I looked at myself in the mirror and didn't recognize the woman staring back. I was bruised, broken. And still, I thought I could endure it… until I realized he'd never change. And if I stayed, I wouldn't survive"
Bianca's eyes stung.
That silence again. Tension thicker than smoke.
Then came the shift.
Her lips parted, and her gaze flicked upward—straight at Kayden now.
"But there's more."
He tensed.
She met his gaze. "Your father had another child. With someone else. While we were still married. A boy. He's your half-brother."
The silence that followed was unlike the one before. It wasn't uncomfortable—it was shocking. Empty.
Kayden's face went blank.
"No."
"Yes," she said, voice breaking. "He's real. And he's alive."
Bianca's eyes widened. "Kayden…"
But Kayden didn't respond. He just stared at Roseline as if she'd spoken a foreign language. As if the very foundation of his life had cracked beneath his feet.
His father—his hero. His tormentor. His everything.
Had lied.
His mother—the villain in his story—was unraveling it all.
"You're lying," he said again, but the conviction was gone.
Roseline stood now, eyes glossy. "I can prove it. But you have to let me in. Just a little. Please."
Kayden stepped back, just one step, but it was enough.
His jaw tightened. The flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes vanished like a flame being snuffed out.
"Get out," he said, voice sharp. "Get out of my house."
Roseline's lips trembled. "Kayden—"
"I said get out!" he barked, voice rising.
He turned on his heel and stormed toward the staircase, his footsteps thunderous against the marble floors. A door slammed upstairs a few seconds later.
Roseline stood there, breath shallow, hands slightly shaking.
Bianca touched her gently on the arm. "I think… maybe it's too much for him right now," she said softly. "We just got back. This is a lot."
Roseline nodded, eyes misty but proud. "I understand."
Bianca reached for her phone and quickly typed in her number, handing it to the older woman. "Please call me. Let's give him time, but I'll talk to him."
Roseline offered a small, grateful smile. "Thank you."
Bianca saw her to the door, watched her leave, then sighed deeply before heading upstairs.
Their bedroom was the largest room in the mansion—a blend of glass, warm wood accents, and deep earth tones that gave it a modern yet cozy feel. One entire wall was glass, opening onto a private balcony that overlooked a distant line of trees and city lights flickering like stars. Soft ambient lighting glowed from recessed fixtures in the ceiling, and in the far corner, Kayden's private wine cellar was built into the wall—shelves of dark oak holding rare and expensive bottles.
She walked quietly over, selected a bottle of red—he usually favored dry vintages—and poured a glass. The clink of glass echoed softly in the silence as she stepped out onto the balcony.
Kayden stood there, shirt sleeves rolled up, one hand gripping the railing. His back was tense, shoulders rigid, but his head was bowed, like the weight of everything had finally landed.
Bianca didn't speak. She held out the wine.
Without looking at her, he took the glass and drank it in one long, hard gulp. As if that was the only thing keeping him upright.
She watched him for a few moments, then set the glass aside.
Carefully, quietly, she reached for his hand. To her surprise, he let her take it.
She led him back into the room, the soft carpet cushioning their steps. Once they stood near the bed, she turned, wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a tight hug.
To her shock, he hugged her back—hard.
He didn't say anything, but she could feel the tremble in his body. Then, the quietest sound—like a muffled sniff. Then another.
He was crying.
Silent, painful tears.
He didn't sob. Kayden wasn't the kind of man who fell apart loudly. But she felt it. The way he gripped her like she was the only steady thing left in his world. The way he buried his face into her neck.
Bianca didn't say a word. She just held on.
Eventually, he gently guided them down until they both collapsed onto the bed, still tangled in that embrace. She lay with her head against his chest, his arms still wrapped tight around her like a shield.
And that was how they drifted off to sleep. Wrapped in silence. Wrapped in each other.