Ezra Laurent stood in front of the modest house, his piercing gaze locked on the wooden door before him. This wasn’t where he belonged—far from the glass skyscrapers and luxury penthouses he was used to. But here he was, standing on the worn-out doorstep of a woman he barely remembered, seeking answers he wasn’t sure he wanted.

With a slow, controlled breath, he lifted his hand and knocked. Three sharp raps. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

The door creaked open, but instead of her, a small boy stood in its place.

Ezra’s sharp eyes narrowed as he took in the child before him—dark hair slightly tousled from sleep, small arms folded across his chest in a stance far too confident for his age, and most strikingly… those eyes.

Dark, calculating, and unmistakably familiar.

Ezra felt something foreign and unpleasant twist in his chest. Impossible.

The boy squinted up at him, brow furrowed in deep annoyance.

"Who the hell are you?" the child demanded, his voice clear and defiant.

Ezra raised a brow. No hesitation. No fear. This child was standing in front of a man feared by the world, and he dared to look unimpressed.

"Where is your mother?" Ezra asked, his voice cool and unreadable.

The boy’s eyes flickered with something dangerously sharp for someone so young. His lips pursed. Then, in an almost mocking tone, he replied, "I don’t talk to strangers. And you didn’t answer my question."

Ezra’s patience thinned. The resemblance was undeniable now. The child’s bone structure, the shape of his mouth, even the way he held himself with such careless authority.

It was like staring at a miniature version of himself.

The boy tilted his head, eyes scanning Ezra with unnerving scrutiny before sighing dramatically. "Lemme guess. You’re one of Mom’s old mistakes, huh?"

Ezra’s jaw tightened.