Alex froze, unable to tear his gaze away from Sofia. The silence was deafening, broken only by the dripping water escaping from the shattered shards of the pitcher. His mind raced, processing the image of the boy, his undeniable features, the truth Sofia was conveying without a single word. Reality hit him like a freight train. He wasn’t just his son; he was the son he hadn’t known he had, the heir to a part of his life he had completely ignored.
“Who… who is he, Sofia?” Alex finally asked, his voice barely a rough, unrecognizable whisper. He pointed at the photograph with a trembling hand.
Sofia bent down slowly to pick up the shards of glass, her back to him. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as if each action required immense effort. “His name is Daniel,” she replied, her voice subdued. “He’s five years old.”
Alex felt a knot in his stomach. Five years. That meant he’d been conceived just before he left her, just as his company was starting to take off and he’d convinced himself he didn’t have time for relationships, that Sofia was a “distraction” on his path to the top. Guilt choked him.
“Is… is it mine?” the question slipped from her lips before he could stop her, though the answer was already seared into his heart.
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