My bedroom 16

Ghosts of the Past 

Katia’s POV 

The penthouse was quiet, except for the distant hum of city life filtering through the tall glass windows. Manhattan stretched out before me like a cold lover, distant, glittering, and never quite mine. I stood barefoot in the living room, dressed in one of Aiden’s favorite oversized sweaters, clutching a steaming cup of chamomile tea as I stared out across the skyline. 

But I wasn’t seeing any of it. 

My thoughts were still in that boardroom, locked in the unspoken tension that simmered between me and Julian Windsor. There was something about the way he looked at me, or maybe the way he couldn’t. 

A flicker. A moment. His eyes had dropped to mine and then away again, like they’d seen too much and 

couldn’t handle more. 

Did he stare at me inappropriately? 

I shook my head. 

It wasn’t lust. Or maybe it was. But something else pulsed behind his eyes. Maybe confusion or 

discomfort? 

He hadn’t liked the taste of my name when I said it, I could tell. I’d said it and watched him flinch ever so slightly, like the syllables brought back something he couldn’t quite remember. And then it hit me. He 

looked like Aiden. 

No, more than looked. There were moments when Julian turned his head just so or frowned at a file in that brooding way of his that it felt like I was staring at an older, grown–up version of my son. It had shaken me, just a little. Enough to hold my gaze longer than I should have. Enough to make him look 

away. 

I hadn’t broken eye contact, not once. 

Because I was trying to understand if fate was playing a cruel trick on me or if the universe was whispering truths I wasn’t ready to hear. But then I know it’s not possible that my sister’s fiance could be the husband I’d been trying to find. 

I turned away from the window and made my way to the kitchen. Cooking helped. It grounded me. And tonight, I needed grounding more than ever. 

I pulled out the fresh pasta I’d bought from the organic shop down the street, set the pot to boil, and began chopping garlic and cherry tomatoes. Aiden loved his pasta simple, just garlic, butter, tomatoes, and a sprinkle of parmesan. 

He said it tasted like love. 

The moment the smell filled the space, I heard the soft thump of small feet running across the hallway. 

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“Mom!” Aiden called. 

“In the kitchen, baby!” I replied. 

He dashed in, his hair a slightly tousled mess from his evening play, eyes wide with delight. “I smelled it from my room.” 

I laughed. “You’re turning into a bloodhound.” 

“No, I’m turning into a foodie.” 

1 gave him a mock gasp. “Oh no! Not a little critic!” 

He climbed up onto the counter stool and started swinging his legs, watching me with a grin that melted every steel wall I’d ever built around my heart. 

Ten minutes later, we were both seated at the marble island, bowls steaming in front of us. 

I poured him apple juice and myself a second glass of wine, trying to shake off the strange feeling still lingering from the day before. 

We were halfway through eating when he set his fork down gently. 

“Mother,” he said quietly. 

I turned to him, smiling. “Mmm?” 

He tilted his head slightly. “Do I have a father?” 

My breath caught. I stared at him, stunned, not because of the question, but because of how calmly he 

asked it. 

He is not accusing me of anything I can see in his eyes, but my baby just wanted to know. He was 

curious. 

I swallowed hard, my heart hammering. 

The question I had dreaded for years had finally arrived, and of course, it had come from Aiden. Not in a tantrum. Not in a fight. But in that honest, open–hearted way of his that always made me feel like I owed 

him the world. 

“…” I hesitated, choosing my words. “You do have a father, sweetheart.” 

“Where is he?” 

My voice was soft. “He’s… been busy for a long time now.” 

Aiden stared at me, eyes narrowing. He was too smart for his age. Far too emotionally intelligent for me 

to lie to him. 

But what could I say? That I’d slept with a stranger I couldn’t even remember? That I’d woken up with nothing but a ring and a memory of bloodstains? That I didn’t even know the name of the man who’d 

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made him? 

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I wish I had more to tell you.” 

He reached across the table and took my hand. 

“It’s okay, Mom,” he said gently. “I have you. That’s more than enough.” 

That was it. The dam broke. My throat tightened as I tried to hold back tears, but one escaped and slid down my cheek. I reached for his tiny fingers and kissed them. 

“You’re my everything,” I told him. “Everything good in my life started with you.” 

He smiled and nodded, content with that for now. 

After dinner, I tucked him into bed, read him his favorite book (Aiden and the Racing Star,) and kissed his forehead. As I turned off the lights and watched him sleep, I felt something twist in my chest. 

A desperate need to remember. To know. To give him a father, even if I had to dig through every dusty corner of my past to find out who he was. 

I sat back in the living room, glass of wine in hand, phone buzzing quietly beside me. 

A text from Delia. 

DELIA: I am so sorry about today. Mom is going crazy trying to push this wedding forward. Are you still coming to my engagement party? 

I stared at the message. 

Julian, Delia’s soon–to–be fiancé. A man who looks exactly like my son 

No, Katia. Don’t go there. It’s just your imagination. There’s no way…but the resemblance. 

I closed my eyes and leaned back against the couch, the weight of it all pressing into my ribs. 

I couldn’t answer Delia. I couldn’t picture myself going to the engagement party either. What would I even say if I saw Julian again? 

Hi, I think you might be the father of my child. Also, you’re engaged to my sister. No big deal. 

The thought made me laugh out loud, a dark, bitter sound that echoed across the penthouse. 

Sam walked in just then; she had a key and often came by after work if Aiden needed anything or if I had too much on my plate. 

“You good?” she asked, dropping her handbag and kicking off her heels. 

I handed her the wine bottle, and she poured herself a glass. “Delia texted. She’s starstruck by Windsor.” 

Sam rolled her eyes. “She would be. The man’s a walking enigma. Billionaire. No public profile. Only speaks through lawyers or boardrooms. And now… he’s partnering with us.” 

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“Yeah,” I murmured. “Now he is.” 

Sam sat across from me and watched me carefully. “Kat.” 

“Yeah?” 

“You okay?” 

I nodded. 

She leaned forward. “He looked familiar to you, didn’t he?” 

I didn’t answer. 

Sam exhaled slowly. “I thought so.” 

“I don’t want to go there,” I whispered. “Not yet. Not until I’m sure.” 

“What if you are sure?” 

“I can’t risk it, Sam. Not with Delia. Not with the company. And definitely not with Aiden.” 

Sam set her glass down and said the words I didn’t want to hear: 

“You need to find out the truth.” 

I closed my eyes. Because she was right. But I don’t want to go there. I brush it off. “Sam, there is no way; he might look like Aiden, but no, he is not the father. I don’t even want to complicate my life right 

now.” 

“True, if he was the father, he would have known you when he saw you too. Let’s not complicate things; you will find him, the man from that night.” 

I nodded, because somewhere, under the weight of power suits, board meetings, racing engines, and champagne glasses… was a ghost of a man I might have loved for one night. A ghost who might be Aiden’s father. And a storm that was just beginning to build.as unrecognizable to them. Which was good. I will let them feel how I felt 

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