Not even when the first tears finally fell. Victor. Didn’t move.
Not when Evelyn walked past him. Not when the flashes turned blinding. Not when someone shouted his name over the terminal speakers that IT wasn’t until the first journalist elbowed closer, shoving a microphone in his face, that he blinked.
Victor. Monroe. Are those your children? Who’s the woman with you? Is your marriage over? He opened his mouth, but his throat was raw, strangled by panic.
His eyes searched desperately for Evelyn, but she was already steps ahead, carrying one of the boys, and guiding the others forward, their small faces confused and tired. Evelyn. Wait.
His voice cracked. She didn’t. Instead, she stopped midway, turned deliberately, and faced the sea of cameras.
Her voice was calm. Steady. Unshaken.
I’m Evelyn Monroe, she said softly, but the silence was thick enough that her. Words carried. And these are Victor’s forgotten children.
The sentence detonated. For the press. For the strangers.
For Victor himself. Gasps. Shutters clicking endlessly.
Even the airport’s automated announcements seemed to pause, as if the building itself strained to listen to Victor’s heart thrashed against his ribs. Evelyn. Don’t.
He tried to step forward, but security, alerted by the escalating crowd, moved between them. Victor’s hand shot out toward her. Pleading.
Desperate. But all he caught was empty air. His wife looked him dead in the eye, then shifted her gaze to the bodyguards standing ready beside her.
Please escort me, and my children out. She didn’t scream. She didn’t beg.
She ordered. The guards hesitated only a moment before obeying, recognizing not the billionaire, but the woman whose pain commanded respect. Evelyn.
Let me explain. His voice was hoarse, hollow. She approached once more, stopping just within reach.
The children clung to her dress. Victor barely breathed. Then she leaned in, her lips close to his ear, her voice barely audible beneath the roar of camera shutters.
They’ll. Remember the man who never picked them up? She whispered. Not the one who carried her back.
And then she stepped back. Victor staggered. Evelyn.
But she was already gone. Security flanked her, shielding her from the chaos as they pushed through the throng. The children’s small figures disappeared.
Into the crowd, swallowed by the flashing lights and raised phones, Victor’s mind screamed. But his body stood paralyzed. Around him, the questions kept coming, louder, hungrier.
Mr. Monroe. Are you denying paternity? Is your company at risk? Is that your mistress? That last question jolted him. He turned sharply.
Naughty. He searched, frantic. But the spot where she had stood only minutes ago was empty.
No cream dress. No trembling hands. No presence.
She. Was gone. Vanished into the confusion that she’d left him.
Victor looked down, disoriented. Her designer handbag lay forgotten at his feet. The absurdity of it twisted something deep inside him.
The cameras. The noise. The betrayal now public, irreversible.
And in that moment, he realized what the world now saw. A billionaire alone in an airport terminal. Surrounded by questions.
Holding no wife. No children. Only the burden of a handbag.
He should never have carried. Above, the terminal’s announcement echoed cruelly. Flight 274.
Now boarding. Victor Monroe stood motionless as the world watched his collapse unfold. Live.
Nadia locked the restroom door and slid down against the cold, tiled wall, her knees trembling. The noise of the terminal outside was muffled here, but her heartbeat roared louder than any sound. She stared at her reflection in the small, cracked mirror above the sink.
Her mascara was smudged. Her cheeks flushed. But it wasn’t exhaustion or fear that frightened her now that IT was recognition.
Who am I to him? Her breathing came in short, ragged gasps. Minutes ago, she had stood beside Victor Monroe, the billionaire she once believed was. Her future.
Now, she sat alone, gripping her own arms, shivering despite the heat. Somewhere in that terminal, his wife held his children, the children Nadia hadn’t even known existed. Her mind replayed it all, fragment by fragment.
Victor carrying. Her bag. The cameras flashing.
And then Evelyn’s face. Calm. Powerful.
The kind of woman Nadia once envied. Now, she feared her. She buried her face in her hands.