The cold fluorescent lights of Marcus Vance’s private investigative agency hummed above my head, a low, maddening vibration that seemed to synchronize with the erratic pounding of my pulse.

The interior of the farmhouse was small, uncluttered, and impeccably clean. The air smelled of warm chamomile tea, baby powder, and fresh wood. Simple handmade rugs covered the pine floorboards, and a small wood-burning stove in the corner kept the room cozy and warm.

In the center of the living room sat a double wooden crib, handmade from thick white oak, lined with soft yellow blankets.

I stood in the entryway, wiping the tears from my eyes, afraid to take another step forward. I felt like an intruder, an unholy presence in a sanctuary of pure innocence.

Maren walked past me without a word, stepping quietly toward the crib. She leaned over, her face instantly softening into a vision of pure, maternal devotion as she gently adjusted a blanket.

"They're sleeping," she whispered softly. "They had a long day."

I slowly walked toward the crib, my heart hammering against my ribs so loudly I thought it might wake them.

When I reached the wooden railing and looked down, the world around me simply ceased to exist.

There they were.

Two tiny, perfect human beings lying side by side. One was sleeping on his stomach with a small fist tucked under his chin; the other was lying on her back, her little lips parted slightly as she breathed in soft, rhythmic puffs.

Their hair was a fine, dusting halo of light golden curls—the exact shade of my own hair as a child, the hair my father had possessed, the hair that had been passed down through generations of Bellamys.

"A boy and a girl," Maren murmured, standing on the opposite side of the crib. "Ethan and Clara."

"Ethan... and Clara," I repeated, the names tasting like medicine on my tongue. "My father's middle name... and your grandmother's."

"Yes."

I reached out a trembling hand, desperately wanting to brush my fingers against the soft skin of my son's cheek, but I stopped myself an inch away. I pulled my hand back, feeling entirely unworthy of touching something so pure.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, looking up at Maren through a fresh wave of tears. "When you found out you were pregnant... why didn't you call me? Why didn't you send a message through your lawyer?"

Maren looked at me across the crib, her eyes clear, steady, and devastatingly honest.

"Where would I have sent it, Rowan?" she asked softly. "To the estate you threw me out of? To the office where your new fiancée was sitting in my place? Should I have called the man who stood in our foyer and called me a liar, a thief, and a unfaithful wife?"

Every word was a strike to my chest, precise and undeniably true.

"I tried to tell you," she continued, her voice trembling slightly for the first time. "The day you kicked me out... I was holding the positive pregnancy test in my coat pocket. I came home from the clinic that afternoon wanting to surprise you. I wanted to tell you that after three years of trying, after all the doctor visits and prayers, we were finally going to be parents."

She closed her eyes briefly, taking a shaky breath before opening them again.

"But when I walked through the door, you didn't give me a chance to speak. You threw bank statements in my face. You held up that necklace. You shouted at me until the walls shook, and when I begged you to look at me, when I begged you to believe me... you told me I disgusted you. You told me you never wanted to see my face again."

"I was wrong," I choked out, placing my hands over my face as a ragged sob tore from my throat. "God help me, Maren, I was so wrong. I was blind, I was arrogant, I was an absolute monster..."

"You were proud, Rowan," she corrected gently. "You cared more about your image, your corporate standing, and your fear of being made a fool of than you cared about the woman who had slept beside you for five years."

She stepped closer to me, looking down at my hands covering my face.

"When I left that house, I made a promise to these babies," she said whispered firmly. "I swore I would never let them grow up in a home where love is conditional. I swore I would never let them be raised around people who trade affection for influence. I didn't take your money during the divorce because I didn't want your poison near my children."

"They are my children too, Maren," I whispered, dropping my hands, looking at her with a desperate, pleading intensity. "Please... I know I don't deserve them. I know I don't deserve you. But please let me be their father. Let me protect you. Let me fix this."

Maren looked at me for a long time. The anger wasn't there, but the wall she had built around her heart was thick, reinforced by ten months of survival in the wilderness.

"You can't fix ten months of abandonment overnight with a stack of papers and an apology, Rowan," she said quietly. "You cleared my name, and for that, I thank you. But if you want to be a father to Ethan and Clara... you are going to have to earn it. Not with your money. Not with your lawyers. With your time, your humility, and your truth."

Before I could answer, little Ethan stirred in the crib, letting out a small, hungry whimper.