Liam couldn't sleep.
The city lights flickered outside his penthouse window, casting long, cold shadows across the room. But it wasn't the lights or the silence that kept him awake—it was her face.
Isabella.
The way she looked at him earlier that night. No tears. No pleading. No emotion, really. Just quiet detachment, like he was nothing more than a distant memory—forgettable.
He poured himself a glass of scotch. It burned going down, but not enough to dull the ache inside his chest.
The ache of something he couldn't name.
He walked to the balcony, staring down at the city. Somewhere down there, she was living her new life. Thriving. Rising.
Without him.
His mind drifted back to that night. The night everything shattered.
He came home late. Again. Drunk. Again.
Isabella had waited for him in the living room, her eyes red from crying. She had something in her hand—a framed ultrasound photo.
He hadn't even noticed.
"What is this?" he'd slurred, barely looking.
"I was going to tell you earlier," she had whispered, "but you were busy again. Liam, I'm pregnant."
He remembered the silence.
And then… the cruelest words he'd ever spoken.
"Is it even mine?"
She had flinched like he slapped her. And maybe, in a way, he had.
He never asked again. Never apologized.
He just walked away.
Liam gripped the balcony railing now, his knuckles white.
That child. Their child.
He didn't know if it had been born. If it was a boy or girl. If Isabella had lost it from the stress.
He had destroyed so much and never looked back.
Until now.
Until she stood before him again—unbroken, radiant, and miles out of reach.
For the first time in years, Liam felt small.
And terrified.
Because he realized something too late:
He still loved her.