The messages started off harmless—nostalgic memories, soft-spoken apologies.
"Do you remember our trip to Venice?"
"I've changed, Helen. For real this time."
"James deserves to know his real father."
Helen deleted each message without reading past the first line. Her resolve was iron. Whatever fantasy Steven had built in his mind, it wasn't hers. Not anymore. Not ever.
But he didn't stop.
When texts were ignored, he sent flowers. When those were left to wilt on her doorstep, he left voicemails. Romantic. Desperate. Manipulative.
"You think he loves you? He doubted you over a piece of paper."
"I would never turn my back on you. On our son."
The lies crawled under her skin, but she refused to let them in. She blocked every number. She memorized every license plate that passed her street. She wasn't afraid—just tired.
Anita offered to hire someone. Helen declined. "I need truth, not revenge."
Still, Steven watched. Waiting. Planning.
---
Meanwhile, Jennifer's grip on Sebastian grew tighter—but not as a lover. As a companion. A friend who was always available, always supportive. She made no moves, asked for nothing, smiled with just enough softness to suggest closeness but not demand it.
They shared long evenings talking. Movies. Meals. Quiet silences that should've felt comforting.
But they didn't.
Every night, when Jennifer left, Sebastian would retreat to his room. He'd sit at the edge of his bed and take out the worn photograph—Helen in the sunlight, laughing at something behind the camera. No makeup. No staging. Just real.
His fingers would trace the edge.
And every night, he would whisper her name like a prayer he didn't deserve to say.
"Helen…"
---
Jennifer knew about the photo. She'd seen it once when he'd left the door slightly open. Her stomach had twisted—not with jealousy, but with calculation.
He wasn't gone.Not completely.But he would be.
She still had one more move. And this time, she wouldn't rely on sedatives or forged papers. This time, she'd bury Helen with something stronger than lies—perception.
All she needed was one mistake. One crack in Helen's perfect armor.
And then she'd strike.
---
In the soft dark of the nursery, Helen held James close. His tiny breath warmed her skin. She could feel the chaos pressing against their windows, the lies scratching to get in.
But she wouldn't break.
Not for Steven.
Not for Jennifer.
Not for anyone.
Only for James.
Only for love.
And somewhere in the distance, Sebastian looked at the same stars and wondered—
What if I was wrong?
Helen wasn't spying.She told herself that more than once.She'd only stepped into the café for a quick tea after James had finally drifted to sleep in his stroller. But fate—or something crueler—had other plans.
Across the room, in a corner tucked beneath hanging lights and quiet jazz, sat Sebastian. And beside him, laughing softly with a hand on his arm, was Jennifer.
They looked… close. Too close.
Jennifer leaned in, whispering something that made Sebastian smile. Not the kind of smile he used to give Helen—no, this one was cautious, guarded. But it still burned.
Helen stood frozen by the counter, her fingers clenched so tight around the stroller handle her knuckles whitened. She didn't breathe. Didn't blink.
And then he saw her.Their eyes met.Time stumbled.
Sebastian stared at her as if he were waking up from a dream. His lips parted, and for a moment, everything he'd tried to forget rushed back—her laughter, her scent, the way she used to say his name when no one else was around.
His heart betrayed him, filled with raw, unfiltered passion.
But then he blinked.Jennifer touched his hand.And he turned away.
---
Helen didn't cry.
Not then. Not when she walked past them like a ghost. Not when James stirred lightly in his stroller. Not even when Jennifer's eyes met hers with a victorious little smile, barely there but unmistakable.
But inside, something shattered. Not because she'd lost him. But because he'd believed a lie.
---
Jennifer noticed the crack in Sebastian's control—and filed it away. She wouldn't confront it. Not yet.
Instead, she planned her next move carefully.
A "just because" weekend trip. Somewhere private. Somewhere with soft beds and expensive wine and the illusion of intimacy. She'd decorate it with sentimentality—pictures of their "journey," carefully curated moments she'd collected during their growing friendship.
And she'd make sure he saw what life could look like. Without Helen.
All he had to do was let go.
---
Back at home, Helen sat on the nursery floor, rocking James in her arms. The soft hum of lullabies played from the speaker, but she wasn't listening.
She looked at her son's eyes. So familiar. So unmistakably his.
Tears touched the corners of her vision, but she held them back.
"Your father doesn't know the truth," she whispered. "But he will."
James stirred, eyes fluttering open to meet hers.
Helen smiled through the pain.
"I will make him see you. See us. See me."
---
Sebastian stood by his window that night, glass of untouched wine in hand. Jennifer was asleep in the guest room down the hall after another long evening of forced laughter and subtle touches.
He stared at the city lights, then at the photograph still hidden inside his drawer. Helen's face stared back at him, soft and clear.
He whispered her name once.
Then again.
And the doubt in his chest flared brighter than ever.
What if the test was wrong?
What if Jennifer wasn't the one keeping him whole—
—but the one tearing him apart?
---
The weekend was meticulously planned.
Jennifer had chosen the lake house for its seclusion—surrounded by tall pines and silver water, hours from the city. The silence there wasn't emptiness—it was a carefully woven intimacy, one she hoped would cradle Sebastian into believing this was home.
She cooked his favorite meals. Brought wine from the vineyard they'd once visited as friends. Even recreated the blanket fort they'd built during a stormy night months ago—back when things had been simpler.
But this time, she added something more.
A scrapbook.
Leather-bound, filled with pictures and handwritten notes. Movie tickets. Restaurant receipts. Candid moments he'd long forgotten, but she hadn't. On the last page, she left a space blank, with a small caption in soft ink:
"Where our next memory goes."
When Sebastian saw it, something shifted in his eyes. Not passion—but weight. A burden that felt like affection, like obligation. Like the life she'd built around him might be real after all.
He smiled.
And for the first time in months, he let himself hold her without resistance.
But deep down, it still didn't feel like Helen.
---
Meanwhile, Helen sat on the floor with James, a coloring book open between them.
"Look, Mommy," he beamed, scribbling a lopsided circle, "That's you. And that's Daddy."
Helen paused.
James didn't call Steven "Daddy." Never had. She never taught him to.
She looked at the drawing again. The circle he pointed to as Daddy—it had dark hair and a blue shirt. Sebastian's color. Sebastian's style. His tiny eyebrows were drawn just the way Sebastian's furrowed when he was thinking.
That wasn't Steven.That was Sebastian.And it wasn't the first time.
James had begun to hum the same melody Sebastian once used to calm her. He stacked his toys in the same color-coded precision. Even the way he furrowed his brow when frustrated—it was all him.
Helen's breath caught.
Could three-year-olds mimic traits they weren't raised with?
Or was it something deeper?
Something genetic?
She looked at James again. Every inch of him screamed Sebastian.
The doubt that had once kept her up at night... began to flicker into hope.
---
Back at the lake house, Sebastian sat alone by the dock while Jennifer slept inside.
The night air was crisp. The water still.
He opened his phone. His fingers hovered over Helen's number.
He didn't press call.But he didn't delete it, either.Instead, he opened his photo gallery.And stared at the picture of a boy he hadn't dared believe was his.
James.
A name that still tasted like love.