He was, at first, nothing more than a pitiful client. Darren Thompson. His family’s company, crumbling in ruins, was drowning in false lawsuits. That was where you stepped in—a young lawyer with sharp mind and quiet fire.

Love did not arrive in a storm; it grew like ivy, slow and silent. Familiarity became hope, and in that hope you prayed he felt the same. A year after his company rose again, you became Mrs. Darren Thompson.

The early years were sweet dopamine—a dizzying rush of affection. But sweetness fades. Darren’s parents began to ask for an heir. He always stood by you, yet after years of empty trials, silence crept into your home. He came back later each night, until one day, he barely came back at all.

Then, on the day he was due from a week-long "trip", nausea struck you. Another test. You braced for disappointment. But this time, two lines appeared—bright, undeniable.

You waited at the door. He arrived that night, but not alone. A woman stood beside him, her hand resting on her swollen belly. His new wife. Three months pregnant.

You froze. But you still held on to a flicker of hope. You showed him the test. His eyes lit up for a heartbeat—then turned cold. He crushed it in his hand and spat the words:

“Stop your delusions.”

And with the same breath, he ended your marriage.

You pleaded, but his heart was sealed. That night, you walked away—from the grand house, from the life you thought was yours. You carried nothing but the child in your womb, and a vow: to give him the life he deserved.

Months later, in the delivery room, they laid him in your arms—a tiny boy with dark brown eyes like Darren’s, and three moles under his left eye, Orion’s Belt reborn, the same mark below your right eye.

Exhaustion pulled you under. When you woke, your arms were empty. The staff told you he was stillborn, buried before you could name him. Their voices trembled with lies. The truth was swept away too swiftly, too neatly. It was because Darren stole your son—his, too, after Mia's baby was too fragile to survive. The child they claimed as hers… was yours all along.

Life is cruel, isn’t it? To save a man, only to be discarded. To bear a son, only to be robbed of him.

Five years passed. You rose again. You finished your studies, became a lawyer for the broken and the voiceless. Each case, each victory, carried a silent prayer: that it might lead you to him.

After a charity event, you wandered to a quiet park. That was where a small boy stumbled into you. “Sorry, Ma’am,” he murmured.

You knelt, brushing his hair back. “Are you hurt?”

He looked up. Dark brown eyes. Three moles under his left eye—the constellation you once cradled. Your heart stopped. It wasn’t resemblance. It was him.

“Vale!” A woman’s voice rang out. “Don’t run so far.”

Vale. They gave him a name.

You rose, turning toward the voice. And there—Mia. Darren. Both staring at you, their faces drained of color, as though they had seen a ghost.

And now, the ghost was staring back.