Ariana’s POV

I looked at him. "More? What more could there possibly be?"

"Alan is sick." Marcus’s voice cracked. "He has a blood disorder. Something with his bone marrow. He’s been sick for years, but it’s getting worse. The doctors say he needs a transplant. A bone marrow transplant, and the only match is his twin."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "Alan is sick? He’s dying?"

"He’s been fighting for a long time, but the doctors say he doesn’t have much time, maybe a few days now... I told you this because I couldn’t let Alan pay for his parents’ mistakes."

I stared at Marcus with my eyes spinning.

"Why didn’t Dante tell me?" I cried. "Why didn’t he tell me before now? He’s been keeping this secret for fourteen years. He let me mourn. He let Alan grow up without his mother. He let Asher grow up without his twin, and now Alan is dying, and I could have been there. I could have helped. I could have—"

I looked up at him. "Where is Alan? Where is my son?"

Marcus hesitated. "He’s at a private facility. Dante has been taking care of him. He has a nanny, a private doctor, basically everything he needs."

"I want to see him." I grabbed Marcus’s arm. My grip was tight. Desperate. "I need to see him, Marcus, please take me to my son."

Marcus looked at me.

Then at Dante.

Then back at me. "Ariana—"

"No." I stood up with my legs shaking. "I’ve waited fourteen years, I didn’t know I was waiting, but I was. My son is out there, and he’s sick, and he needs me. I’m not waiting another minute. Take me to him, please."

Marcus stood up too. "Okay, I’ll take you."

The words came out before I could stop them. "I don’t know if I can ever forgive Dante for this."

Marcus didn’t say anything.

I walked to the bed and looked down at Dante.

"How could you?" I whispered. "How could you do this to me? To Alan? To Asher? How could you let me believe our son was dead when he was out there somewhere, growing up without me?"

No answer.

Of course, there was no answer.

I reached out and touched his face.

His cheek was cool.

His stubble is rough under my fingers.

"I should hate you," I said quietly. "I should hate you for what you did, but I can’t because I love you and because Alan needs Asher and I need to meet my son and because—" I stopped. Swallowed.

I leaned down and pressed my lips to his forehead. "I’m going to meet our son now, and when you wake up, you and I are going to have a very long conversation about everything you’ve been hiding."

I pulled back."I love you, Dante, but right now I need to be with Alan. I’ll come back. I’ll always come back, but I need to meet my son."

I turned to Marcus. "Take me to him. Now."

Marcus nodded.

He walked to the door and held it open for me.

I walked out the door with Marcus following me.

"Ariana," Marcus said quietly. "Are you okay?"

I didn’t answer because I couldn’t.

I got in the passenger seat. Marcus got in the driver’s seat, then he started the engine.

I stared out the window as the city passed by. My mind was racing.

What did Alan look like? Did he look like Asher? Did he look like Dante? Did he look like me? What did he like? What did he hate?

I thought about Asher. How was I going to tell him? How was I going to explain that he had a brother? A brother who needed him to save his life?

"Marcus," I said. My voice was quiet. "Is Alan going to be okay? If Asher donates his bone marrow, will Alan be okay?"

Marcus was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "The doctors say it’s his only chance, the transplant could save his life, but there are risks for both of them."

I closed my eyes and the tears came again. I didn’t stop them.

"Alan doesn’t know about Asher," I said. "He doesn’t know he has a brother who could save him. He doesn’t know he has a mother who wants to meet him. He’s been out there, sick and scared, and I could have been there. I should have been there."

Marcus reached over and squeezed my hand. "You’re going to be there now. That’s what matters. You’re going to meet him. You’re going to save him, and then you’re going to tell him the truth."

I squeezed his hand back. "He’s going to hate me. He’s going to think I abandoned him. He’s going to think I didn’t want him."

"He might," Marcus said honestly. "But he might not, I’m sure he’ll be glad to meet you."

"I’m scared," I admitted. "I’m scared to meet him. I’m scared he won’t want me. I’m scared it’s too late."

Marcus drove in silence for a moment. Then he said, "It’s never too late, Ariana, don’t say things like that."

I held onto those words.

I held onto them like a lifeline.

We drove for another hour.

The sun was starting to set when Marcus turned onto a private road. There were gates, security cameras, and guards. Marcus rolled down his window and spoke to the guard.

The gates opened.

We drove up a long driveway.

My heart was pounding. My hands were shaking.

Marcus parked the car. He turned to me. "Are you ready?"

I looked at the house.

"No," I said honestly. "But I’m going anyway."

I opened the door and got out.

My legs were shaking as we made our way in.

A woman opened the door older woman looked at Marcus, then at me.

"Marcus," she said. "Is everything okay?"

Marcus put his hand on my back. "Margaret, this is Ariana. Alan’s mother."

The woman’s eyes went wide. Her hand went to her mouth. "Oh my. Oh my goodness."

"Is he here?" I asked. My voice was barely a whisper. "Is Alan here?"

Margaret nodded slowly. "He’s in his room. He’s resting. He’s been tired lately. The doctors say..."

She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.

"Can I see him?" I asked. "Please. I need to see him."

Margaret looked at Marcus.

Marcus nodded.

Margaret stepped aside.

I walked into the house.

My legs were weak, and my heart was pounding with every step, as if it were a mile.

Margaret led me down a hallway.

We stopped at a door.

Margaret opened it and stepped aside.

I walked in.

The room was dark.

The curtains were drawn.

There was a bed in the middle, and in the bed, a boy, thin, pale, with tubes running from his arm to a machine beside the bed.

His eyes were closed.

I walked closer; my legs were shaking.

He looked like Asher.

The same face.

The same nose.

The same shape of the eyes, but thinner and paler.

I sat down in the chair beside his bed. I reached out and touched his hand. His skin was cool and soft.

I broke into sobs. I cried for the fourteen years I lost, the birthdays I missed. I cried for the mother I should have been.

And in the quiet of that room, with my son’s hand in mine

I leaned down and kissed his forehead. "I’m here," I whispered. "Mummy is here now, and you’re going to be okay."