Ava finally stepped out of Adrien's dorm, red-bottom heels tapping confidently against the marble steps, though her eyes were still soft, touched with tears. Her hug lingered on her silk blouse, his cologne etched into her.
She was the picture of elegance — tailored blazer, sunglasses perched like a crown, head held high. But inside, she still heard her son's voice saying, "Don't cry, Ma. Please don't make this dramatic."
Whispers trailed behind her like perfume.
"Wait—is that his mom?"
"She's so hot."
"That's Ava Carter, right?"
"Dude, she's literally CEO of some luxury brand—"
"Why does Adrien's mom look like she owns three empires and a yacht?"
She ignored them with a practiced flick of her hair. But when she passed Adrien's Political Science professor on the path, he gave her a small smile.
"Ms. Carter," he greeted, adjusting his glasses. "Just wanted to say—your son is brilliant. Grounded. You should be proud."
"I am," she replied, voice gentle, yet firm. "Thank you, Professor."
She moved past him and turned toward the gates—
And froze.
Leaning against a sleek matte-black car, dressed in a dark sweater and fitted jeans, arms crossed casually, was Alex.
He was older, but unfairly good-looking. The kind of man who aged like a luxury whiskey—smooth, deep, and expensive-looking.
And as fate would have it, a group of college girls were walking past.
"Oh my God—who is that?"
"Please tell me that's a professor."
"He's like... hot hot."
"Do you think he's single?"
Ava raised an eyebrow and smirked.
Still got it, huh?
But her heart stuttered.
He hadn't noticed her yet. He was watching the dorm windows, one hand in his pocket, the other holding her favorite coffee order—caramel espresso, extra hot.
Just like he used to.
She walked toward him, each step deliberate.
And when he looked up and saw her—time didn't stop.
But they did.
She didn't smile. Not at first. Just stared at him. Measured. Years of pain and love, of silence and screams, hanging between them like fog.
He blinked once. Twice. Swallowed. Opened the door.
And for a moment—just one—he wasn't the monster from her nightmares.
He was the boy who wrote poems on napkins. The boy who kissed her stomach when she was pregnant. The boy who cried when Adrien took his first breath.
Ava exhaled.
She got in the car.
The whispers outside faded. But the ghosts in the car stayed.
And beside her, Alex held out the coffee without a word.
Like he never stopped remembering.