Rivan sat still in the back of his car, his fingers clenched tightly around the thin report folder in his lap. Inside was the truth that had stolen his breath ever since he read it.
Rivan Elisar Jr.
Date of Birth: 10 years ago.
Guardian: Keal Darien.
Mother: Liora Darien.
The child bore his name. Not just his first, but his middle as well. It wasn't random. It wasn't coincidence.
It was deliberate.
And it tore something open inside him.
He needed to know.
Arrangements were made quickly. Under the guise of a silent donor linked to a scholarship fund, Rivan was granted a quiet tour of Hopehill Grammar School, far from his usual world of luxury and power. The principal welcomed him warmly, oblivious to the ache behind his practiced smile.
"Rivan Elisar Jr. is one of our best students," she explained kindly. "Bright, polite, well-mannered. Always curious."
The principal flipped the file open. "He's been here since last year. His mother, Liora, is very active. And Mr. Darien, the guardian, attends all school events."
Liora and Keal. Raising a child who carried Rivan's name.
"Are there other children under their guardianship?" he asked quietly.
She smiled. "Yes, twins. Sahir and Eliya Darien. They're older — about fourteen. Transferred from a rural school last year."
Rivan's breath stilled.
Sahir. Eliya.
All three of them… together… here.
Minutes later, as recess bell rang, Rivan stood hidden near the courtyard, leaning quietly against a stone column. The sounds of children's laughter filled the air.
Then he saw them.
A boy — lean frame, dark lashes, a grin too familiar — looked up at the sky, squinting against the sun. Two teens ran over to him, calling, "RJ!"
The boy laughed and turned toward them.
His nose, his eyes, the softness in his smile — it was like looking at himself as a child.
The girl nudged his shoulder while the other boy handed him a juice box. The three of them sat under a tree in the shade, eating, talking, laughing.
Rivan watched them from afar — unseen, unknown. A ghost in his own story.
They're mine, he whispered in his mind.
Not just one.
All three.
He didn't approach. Couldn't. Not now.
He turned away quietly and left the school grounds without speaking another word.
That night, in the small rented house nestled in the quieter corner of the city, the family had finished dinner. The twins cleaned up the dishes while Rivan Jr. raced to finish his homework before bedtime.
"Off to your rooms," Keal said gently, ruffling RJ's hair as the kids disappeared down the hallway.
The moment their bedroom doors clicked shut, Liora froze.
Her spoon clattered against the bowl.
Keal noticed her pale face, the way her hand trembled as she clutched her cardigan.
"Liora?"
She looked at him, barely breathing.
"RJ said… a strange man watched him at school today."
Keal's eyes narrowed. "What kind of man?"
"He said he wore black. Didn't speak. Just… stared. For a long time."
Keal straightened in his seat. His muscles tense.
Liora's voice dropped to a whisper, breaking. "What if it's him, Keal?"
Silence.
"What if he found us?"
She shook her head, already spiraling. "What if he wants to take the kids? What if he—?"
Keal reached across the table and gripped her hand. "He won't."
"But Keal, if he knows—if he found them—"
"He won't take them," Keal said again, firmer this time. "I won't let him."
Liora looked down at the table, chest rising and falling rapidly. "Rivan Elisar Jr… I gave him that name because I still… I never stopped…"
Keal gently stood, walked around the table, and pulled her into his arms. She folded into him without resistance.
"He may have found them," he murmured, "but he lost the right to claim them long ago."
And in the quiet house, just rooms away from the children they built a life around, two hearts beat in fear — not of being found, but of having to choose between love once shared… and the family they had rebuilt from its ruins.
---
The bedroom was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the hallway light slipping in through the crack of the open door.
Liora lay on the bed, knees pulled close to her chest. She wore an oversized shirt — Rivan's old black one, the cotton worn thin with time, sleeves dangling past her fingers. Only a single button was fastened, just beneath her chest, barely holding it together. Her bare legs curled into the sheets, her skin shivering with something far deeper than cold.
In her hand was a photograph — one from years ago. The three of them. Smiling. Carefree. Rivan's arm slung around her shoulders, Keal's hand resting on her waist, both of them caught in mid-laugh.
Tears slipped silently down her cheeks as her thumb traced Rivan's face in the picture. "You were supposed to be here," she whispered. "Why couldn't you just trust us?"
Her lips trembled, and the ache in her chest only deepened.
The door creaked.
She didn't move.
Keal stood in the doorway, watching her silently.
He took in the sight — the shirt, the photo, the silent mourning. But he didn't feel rage. Not jealousy. Just… grief. For all of them.
He walked in slowly, his heart aching with every step.
"Loira…" he murmured.
She looked up, startled. Her eyes were red, her breath caught in her throat.
"I didn't hear you come in," she whispered.
Keal's gaze drifted to the photo still in her hand. He swallowed hard, walked to the edge of the bed, and sat beside her.
"Is that the only one you kept?" he asked.
She nodded. "I burned the rest. But I couldn't let this go."
He reached over and gently plucked the photo from her fingers, looking at it silently for a long moment. Then he leaned forward… and set it carefully on the nightstand.
His eyes met hers again. "I see you're still his," he said quietly, not bitterly — just a truth, laid bare.
She didn't argue.
But she reached for his hand.
"And still yours," she whispered.
He stared at her — truly stared. At the woman who had broken beside him and yet kept rising for their children. At the pain that lived in her body but never kept her from loving.
And tonight, seeing her in Rivan's shirt, fragile and open, something in him snapped loose.
Keal leaned in and kissed her — softly at first, like asking permission.
But she responded instantly — arms pulling him down, lips trembling against his. Her hands slid up his chest, pushing his shirt aside, her nails grazing his skin as she whispered, "Make me forget…"
His fingers trembled as they unfastened that single button. The shirt slid open, revealing the curve of her waist, her stomach, the line of old stretch marks he had always found beautiful.
"You're still everything to me," he breathed.
"I need to feel that," she whispered. "Tonight… I need to remember who I belong to."
His lips met hers again — deeper, hungrier.
Clothes slipped away in silence. Their bodies found each other with the familiarity of home and the desperation of memory. His hands mapped the lines of her back, her thighs wrapping around his hips as she moaned his name softly into the space between them.
Every thrust, every breath, every kiss was layered in more than just need — it was grief, it was longing, it was the ache of still loving someone who was gone… and the pain of still choosing the one who stayed.
Their lovemaking was raw. Slow. Honest.
He held her tighter when she cried. She whispered Rivan's name once — but followed it with Keal's — "Don't leave me too."
"Never," he promised, kissing away her tears. "I'm not him. I never left."
She came undone beneath him, gasping, shaking, fingers clinging to his skin.
And when they finally collapsed into each other, limbs tangled and hearts exhausted, he brushed her hair back and whispered, "We'll survive this. Together."
She nodded, resting her head on his chest — the past still burning behind her eyes, but love holding her steady in the present.
---