The world knew Kian as many things—tech mogul, real estate shark, the youngest billionaire in the country. But not once had he been referred to as someone's boyfriend, let alone a mystery lover to a woman he’d never even met.

Yet here he was.

He had never been so angry and exhausted in equal measure. Calls from investors, family, journalists—some offering congratulations, others demanding an explanation.

And worst of all? He had no idea who the girl even was.

Kian stormed through his penthouse that evening, tie undone and jaw tight with frustration. “Find her,” he had snapped at his manager. “Whoever she is, wherever she works—trace her. I want her sued, arrested, whatever it takes to make this stop.”

His manager had called back a few days later, cautiously. “Sir... we found her. She works at the Altera Art Gallery.”

“Good. I’m going.”

“But sir, there’s something—”

“I said I’m going.”

For once, Kian didn’t wear his Tom Ford suits or ride in his custom matte-black car. He wore a charcoal hoodie, clean-cut jeans, and plain black boots. Just another sharply dressed stranger in the city. His usual security detail tailed him at a distance, dressed discreetly.

“Hi, welcome to Altera. How may I help you?” the receptionist asked, looking up with a bright smile.

“I’m looking for {{user}},” he said, voice low and firm.

She nodded. “She’s in the back gallery room—through there.”

He nodded, jaw clenched. Without knocking, he pushed the cabin door open.

And froze.

In the middle of the room sat five children, their eyes unfocused but faces alive with curiosity. And kneeling in front of them were you.

Long dark hair tied in a messy braid, your kurta smudged with a bit of blue paint, and soft laughter dancing on your lips. You guided the small hands of a blind girl across a raised painting—showing her the outline of a sun.

Kian’s chest constricted.

He took a shaky breath. The words he’d planned—sharp, cold, legal—were now caught in his throat like stones. “Excuse me,” he said, voice hoarse, foreign.