Chapter 2

Serena’s POV

Boy is wearing a hospital gown like mine, and girl is in her own clothes. They look about five or six, both with these unbelievably perfect, pretty faces that make it hard to look away. They rush toward me with no hesitation. Before I can say anything, they climb up on my bed, one on each side. Their tiny arms wrap around me.

“Mommy, did someone hurt you?” boy asks, his voice all gentle and sweet. Girl looks at me with big, bright eyes and nods, “Did bad people do this to you?”

My chest tightens. I have no idea who these kids are, but they’re looking at me like I’m the most important person in the world. I’m not their mom. I’ve never seen them before. But they’re wiping my tears, so careful and clumsy.

I try to keep my voice calm, “Kids, you must have the wrong person.” I reach out and smooth their soft hair. They stare at me, unblinking, and say in perfect unison, “No, you’re our Mommy.”

Boy starts rattling off details about their “Daddy”: He’s got a bad temper, he’s quiet, he’s always working, not eating right, and he smokes. Girl chimes in, “But Daddy is so handsome and rich, Mommy. Don’t leave us again.” Their insistence shakes me. I try again, “You’re both very cute, but I’m really not your Mommy.”

They exchange a look, like they know something I don’t. Boy’s face lights up with determination, “You are our Mommy, and we know a secret…” Girl nods eagerly, looking like she’s about to spill everything.

Before she can speak, a low, firm male voice comes from the doorway, “Milo. Stella.” The kids freeze and turn around. I follow their gaze.

He stands tall and strong, dressed in a crisp white shirt with the top button undone, revealing a hint of his well-defined neck and chest. I can almost see the outline of muscle under that shirt. His tailored slacks and polished shoes complement his fit physique, a testament to his regular workouts. His hair is a sleek, jet-black mane, meticulously styled, adding to his striking presence. His gray eyes are captivating, their cool intensity drawing you in and hinting at a depth of emotion beneath their surface.

His face is a masterpiece of sharp, angular lines—high cheekbones and a strong, chiseled jawline that exude confidence and masculinity. A neatly trimmed beard accentuates his strong jaw, adding a touch of rugged sophistication to his flawless appearance. He’s ridiculously good-looking, the kind of handsome that stops you cold. Even in my confused state, I feel a kick of heat inside me. I’ve seen plenty of good-looking men in Manhattan, but he’s on another level. The tension in the air around him is intense, controlled, and strangely exciting.

“Daddy!” Milo and Stella say, less confident now. Lucas shoots them a sharp look. “Go back to your room,” he says, his voice calm but leaving no room for argument.

Milo frowns, Stella pouts, but they don’t fight it. Before leaving, Milo turns to me, “Mommy, we’re right next door. Will you come see us later?” Stella’s eyes are bright and hopeful, “Please, Mommy?”

I can’t refuse, not when they look at me like that. “Okay,” I say, even though I have no idea what’s going on. I plan to explain to them later that I’m not their mother.

Milo and Stella give me their names and then hop down, following Lucas. He doesn’t look at me at all, just turns and leaves. I feel unsettled, but also relieved by his distance. I’m not great at talking to strangers, especially not men like him who look like they walked off the cover of a magazine.

I hobble awkwardly toward the restroom, leaning heavily on my crutches to keep my weight off my injured leg. After taking a few moments inside, I step back out into the main room and nearly jump—Lucas is there again, standing quietly as if he never left. I stare at him. He’s so calm, standing there with his hands in his pockets. “Do I scare you?” he asks flatly.

“No,” I say quickly, “I just didn’t expect anyone else to be here.” I’m defensive, unsure what he wants.

He watches me carefully before speaking, “I’m Lucas Harrington. The StarRiver Group owns the banquet hall where your engagement party was held yesterday. The shot—” He pauses as if choosing his words. “We are responsible for what happened. I’m here to pay for your hospital expenses. If you want compensation, including lost income or emotional distress, just tell me.”

I feel a rush of bitterness and exhaustion, but I try to keep calm. “Just cover my medical bills,” I say.

Lucas studies me, his gaze strong and unreadable. My leg is starting to ache from standing too long. He notices my discomfort. “Need help?” His tone is distant, but he’s clearly aware I’m about to topple over.

“No, I’m fine,” I say, trying to keep what’s left of my pride. But as soon as I take another step, my crutch slips. I panic. I’m about to crash down hard, but he’s too fast. Lucas steps in and catches me, his arm solid around my waist, pulling me tight against him. My face ends up near his chest, and I inhale the faint scent of clean soap and something warm. I can hear his heartbeat. It’s strong, steady, and I’m way too close to this insanely good-looking, strong man I’ve never met before.

I mumble, “I’m okay,” trying to push away, but as I do, I lose my balance again. Without a word, Lucas just scoops me up into his arms, lifting me like I weigh nothing. My face burns hot. I grip his shoulder then let go, not wanting to cling to him. He crosses the room with smooth, steady steps and gently sets me down on the bed. Every muscle in his arms felt real, not like those scrawny guys I’ve met at parties. He’s got a quiet strength that rattles me.

Just then, a furious voice snaps at us from the doorway. “What the hell are you doing?” I know that voice. Ian Whitmore. My fiancé—or what was supposed to be my fiancé before everything went wrong.

My heart twists. I look at Ian. He’s glaring at me like I’ve committed some crime. Lucas doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even look at Ian. He just finishes placing me on the bed and takes a step back. Ian storms over, face contorted with anger.

“Serena Sinclair!” he practically shouts. “I always knew you’d never change!”