The night was endless. Evie didn't sleep. She sat on the stiff, designer sofa, watching the city lights below slowly dim as dawn tinged the sky a bruised purple.
Every minute was an eternity, each one measured by the frantic beat of her heart.
The penthouse's sterile silence was broken only by the soft hum of the climate control and the occasional, unnervingly quiet movement of Sebastian as he maintained his watch.
He was a statue by the windows, a silhouette against the waking city.
He hadn't pressured her, hadn't spoken beyond necessary, but his presence was a constant reminder of her captivity. She was a problem to be solved. A variable to be quantified.
As the first true rays of sunlight speared through the glass, the elevator chimed.
Evie's head snapped up, her breath catching. Sebastian straightened, his posture shifting from watchful to alert.
It was Lysander.
He looked like he hadn't slept either. There was a grim weariness in the set of his shoulders, a shadow of stubble darkening his jaw.
The crisp perfection of the gala was gone, replaced by a raw, untamed intensity. He still wore the same clothes from the night before, the shirt now wrinkled, the tie missing.
In his hand, he held a single, sealed manila envelope.
He didn't even glance at Sebastian. His mercury eyes, burning with a strange, volatile fire, locked directly onto Evie.
The world narrowed to that envelope. To him.
He crossed the room in a few swift strides and dropped the envelope onto the coffee table in front of her. It landed with a soft, definitive thud.
"Well?" The single word was a graveled command.
Evie stared at the envelope, her heart hammering against her ribs. This was it. The verdict on her life.
On her children's future. Her hand trembled as she reached for it, her fingers brushing against the cheap paper that held such immense power.
She broke the seal and pulled out a single sheet of paper. The header was from a prestigious, private lab.
Her eyes, blurred with tears and fatigue, scanned past the legal jargon and scientific terms, searching for the only words that mattered.
She found them.
Probability of Paternity: 99.999%
A sound escaped her a choked gasp, a sob of relief and vindication. She let the paper fall to her lap, her entire body going limp as the crushing weight of the last five years, of the last twelve hours, finally, finally lifted. She looked up at Lysander, tears streaming freely down her face.
"They're yours," she whispered.
For a long, suspended moment, he was perfectly still. The news seemed to have a physical effect on him, a tremor running through his frame.
The cold, controlled mask he'd worn since the gala shattered. What was left underneath was not the ruthless billionaire, nor the charming memory of Leo. It was something raw, unguarded, and utterly stunned. He looked… lost.
His gaze dropped from her face to the paper in her lap, then back to her eyes, as if searching for a lie, for a trick. Finding none, he slowly, stiffly, lowered himself into the armchair opposite her, his eyes never leaving hers.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy with the immensity of the truth.
"Tell me," he said, his voice rough, stripped of its usual authority. It was just a voice. A man's voice. "Tell me about them."
It wasn't a demand. It was a plea.
And so, she did. The words came in a soft, halting rush, painted with the colors of a mother's love.
"Leo… he's quiet. So serious. He gets this little furrow right here," she said, touching her own brow. "When he's concentrating on a puzzle or his building blocks. He's methodical. He has to understand how everything works.
He asks a thousand questions." She saw a flicker of something in his eyes. "And he's brave. So brave. When Luna is scared of the dark, he holds her hand and tells her about the constellations he's read about."
She took a shaky breath, seeing her children so clearly in her mind's eye. "And Luna… she's a force of nature. She feels everything so deeply.
She's all laughter and big, messy emotions. She draws on everything paper, the walls, her own arms. She draws pictures of you." Her voice broke. "She calls you her 'dream daddy.' She's been waiting for you."
Lysander flinched as if she'd struck him. He dropped his head into his hands, his fingers lacing through his dark hair.
The powerful, untouchable Lysander Crowe was brought to his knees not by a business rival, but by the image of a little girl he'd never met drawing pictures of him.
"I didn't know," he rasped, the words muffled by his hands. He looked up, and the raw agony in his eyes stole her breath.
"Evelyn, I swear to you. I never knew. The number I gave you was a private line. When I left New York that summer, I had to… I had to become this." He gestured vaguely at the penthouse, at himself. "I shut it off. I shut everything off. I never got any messages. I never received a letter."
The conviction in his voice was absolute. The cynical part of her, the part that had been hardened by five years of struggle, wanted to doubt him.
But the woman who had loved Leo Sand saw the truth blazing in his silver eyes. He was telling the truth. He had been kept in the dark, too.
"The settlement…" she whispered.
"A lie," he said, his voice gaining a sharp, dangerous edge. "A fabrication told to me by my mother to ensure I wouldn't go looking for a 'distraction.' She told me you were paid handsomely for your discretion and wanted nothing more to do with me."
The pieces were crashing into place, forming a picture of a different kind of betrayal.
He hadn't abandoned her. He had been manipulated. Isolated.
Before she could process it, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out, his expression hardening back into its familiar, ruthless lines as he read the screen. The moment of vulnerability was over, sealed shut.
"The vultures are circling," he said coldly, standing up. "Damian Vance has a press conference scheduled for noon.
He's going to run with the 'secret heir' narrative to try and tank my stock and paint me as an irresponsible, reckless playboy." He looked at Evie, a new, terrifying resolve in his eyes. "That ends now."
"What are you going to do?" she asked, a fresh coil of fear tightening in her stomach.
"I am going to control the narrative," he stated, his voice like steel. "Sebastian, prepare the jet. We're leaving for Maine in two hours."
Evie shot to her feet. "What? No! You can't just… descend on them!"