Dante’s POV

I walked into the room, letting out a deep breath.

Alan looked up from the couch, his face lit up like someone turned on a light as he jumped up, dropping the soccer ball he was holding, causing it to bounce across the floor.

"Dad!" he shouted as he ran across the room and launched himself at me.

I caught him holding him tight.

He was getting so tall for a fourteen-year-old, almost as tall as me, but he still hugged me like he was a little boy.

"Hey, champ," I said, my voice thick. "How was the match?"

He pulled back his face, bright with excitement.

"We won! Three to one! I scored two goals, Dad. Two! Coach said I was the man of the match."

I looked at him in adoration, his dark hair like mine, but his eyes... those were Ariana’s eyes.

That smile was hers, too.

The shape of his face. The way he tilted his head when he was excited. He was a perfect mix of us, a replica.

"That’s my boy," I said, ruffling his hair. "I’m so proud of you."

He grinned. "You said you’d come watch next time. You promised."

I felt the guilt hit me in the chest. "I know, buddy, I got held up, work stuff, but I’m here now."

He shrugged.

It was a casual movement, but I saw the flicker of disappointment in his eyes.

He was used to it.

Too used to it.

"It’s okay," he said. "I know you’re busy. Margaret recorded it on her phone. Do you want to see?"

"Later," I said. "I want to hear all about it first. Tell me everything."

The door opened, and his nanny, Margaret, walked in.

She had been with Alan since he was a baby. She was the only one besides me who knew the truth.

She was older now, with grey hair and kind eyes.

"Alan," she said gently, "why don’t you go clean up? Your uniform is covered in grass stains."

Alan looked down at himself. "Oh. Yeah. Okay." He looked at me. "You’ll still be here when I get back, right?"

"I’ll be here," I said.

He ran off to his room, and I watched him go.

Watched the easy way he moved.

Margaret closed the door as she walked over and sat in the chair across from me. Her face was serious.

Worried.

"We need to talk," she said.

I already knew I could see it in her eyes. I could feel it in my bones.

"He’s getting worse," I said. It wasn’t a question.

She nodded slowly. "The doctors ran more tests last week, and the numbers are dropping. The fatigue is getting worse; even if he doesn’t show it, he hides it well, but I see it. He gets tired faster and sleeps longer. His appetite is decreasing."

I closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the couch. "What are the doctors saying?"

She was quiet for a moment. "They’re saying we’re running out of time. He needs the transplant, Dante, and soon. Within the next few months, or..."

She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.

I opened my eyes and looked at the ceiling. "The transplant from his twin."

"Yes."

His twin.

The one I took and one I left with Ariana.

Margaret was quiet.

"I have to tell her," I said, the words felt like stones in my mouth. "I have to tell her everything."

"You knew this day would come," Margaret said gently. "You always knew."

I laughed. It was a bitter sound. "Did I? I think I told myself I would figure it out. That I would find another way. That she would never have to know."

"There is no other way. The doctors have been clear. The only match for Alan is his brother."

I sat up. Put my head in my hands. "She’s going to hate me."

"She might."

I lied to her for fourteen years, and I took her child. One of her twins. She gave birth to two boys and believed one had died.

"You didn’t steal him," Margaret said. "You made a choice. A difficult choice. You were young, and so was I. You had a one-night stand that neither of you expected to lead to anything; you two didn’t even know who you were."

I looked up at her. "I didn’t give her a choice. I didn’t tell her there were two babies. I let the doctors tell her that one of them didn’t survive. I let her mourn a child that wasn’t dead. I let her raise Asher while I took Alan and raised him here in secret for fourteen years."

"I wanted a child, and she didn’t even know me. I told myself it was for the best. That she was young, struggling, alone. That one baby would be easier than two. That I could give him a better life."

"All of that is true."

"But it wasn’t my choice to make." I stood up. Paced the room. "She was his mother; she had the right to know. She had a right to choose, and I took that from her. I took her son and let her believe he was dead... now fourteen years later, I have to tell her the truth, not because I’m ready or it’s the right time but because Alan is dying and he needs his brother to save him."

Margaret watched me pace. "How are you going to tell her?"

"I don’t know how to tell a woman that the child she’s been mourning for fourteen years is alive? How do you tell her that the son she raised, the son she loves, has a twin she never knew about? How do you explain that you stole her baby because you were selfish and scared and in love with her and couldn’t let go?"

Margaret was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "You tell her the truth, all of it. You let her be angry, and then you ask her to save your son. Her son."

I sat back down. The weight of everything pressed down on me. "Asher. He’s fourteen now, too. He doesn’t know he has a brother. He’s going to find out that everything he thought he knew about his life is a lie."

"Like his mother will."

"Yes." I put my head in my hands again. "Like his mother will."

We sat in silence for a while.

"Does Alan know?" Margaret asked. "About his brother?"

I shook my head. "No. He knows that his mother is late."

"He’s going to have questions."

"He’s going to have a lot of questions."

The door opened, and Alan walked in, his hair wet, wearing clean clothes. He looked at me, then at Margaret, then back at me.

"What’s wrong?" he asked, his voice was sharp.

Observant.

He was too smart and could tell when something was off.

"Nothing," I said quickly. "We were just talking about... work stuff."

He didn’t look convinced, but he let it go. He came and sat next to me on the couch.

"Oh, okay then... we can head out now, Dad."

I nodded, getting up. Margret gave me a knowing look, making my jawline harden.

How do you tell the woman you love that you stole her child? That you let her mourn for fourteen years? That the son she thinks is dead is alive and needs her?

I didn’t have the answer, but I had to try.