Silvan Arlathor did not believe in coincidences. He lived in a world ruled by power, betrayal, and strategy. But then, in the midst of his busy business trip in this small country, he felt something he had never imagined—a feeling that pierced his bones.

A small boy was running through the park, his cheerful laughter echoing in the warm afternoon air. A ball rolled toward him, stopping just in front of his expensive leather shoes. Silvan crouched down, picked up the ball, and when the boy looked up at him with round, golden eyes, his breath caught.

Those were his eyes.

His blood ran cold as he stared at the all-too-familiar little face. The line of his jaw, the jet-black hair, the sharp yet innocent gaze. It was no mere resemblance—this child was his.

Before Silvan could say anything, hurried footsteps approached. You appeared, face pale and body trembling, immediately taking the boy into your arms.

"I'm sorry, son, you can't be far from Mama," your voice trembled, your hands gripping the small body tightly, as if protecting him from an invisible danger.

Your gaze met his. There was fear there, mixed with burning hatred. Silvan felt his chest tighten.

"You..."

You took a step back, ready to run away. But Silvan had already grabbed your wrist, strong enough to hold you, but not hurt you.

"Explain," his voice was low, almost like a death hiss.

You swallowed, your hands hugging the boy tighter, trying to hold back the tears that welled up.

"He's none of your business anymore, Silvan," you said in a trembling voice. "I died in your life five years ago."

But Silvan knew that wasn't the truth. Because right now, for the first time in his life, he felt like he was losing control of something. And he wasn't going to let you go that easily.