The office smelled like leather, coffee, and money.
Jane sat across from Ryan Sterling and tried not to look at his hands.
They were the same hands she remembered from that night. Gripping the bedsheet. Shaking.
_Get it together. You’re Jane Miller._
“Ms. Miller,” Ryan said. He didn’t smile. CEOs like him rarely did. “I read your portfolio. Your lines are clean. Minimal. But there’s... softness in them.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jane said. Her voice came out steady. She was proud of that.
He leaned back in his chair. “Call me Ryan.”
“Ryan,” she repeated. The name burned her tongue.
For 10 minutes they talked fabric. Cuts. Color palettes for the Sterling women’s capsule.
Jane answered every question perfectly. She’d stayed up all night for this.
Then Ryan set his pen down.
“Can I ask you something personal?”
Jane’s blood went cold. “Of course.”
“You have an accent,” he said. “But not a British one. American?”
“Yes,” Jane said quickly. “Port Harcourt. Moved to London 5 years ago.”
“Family?”
“Just my grandmother,” Jane lied. Half-lied. “And my... kids.”
Ryan’s eyes flicked to her portfolio. A corner of paper was sticking out. Crayon. Purple.
A drawing of two stick figures and a dog.
His jaw tightened. Just a little.
“How old?”
“Four,” Jane said. “Twins. A boy and a girl.”
The room went quiet.
Outside the glass, London traffic moved 52 floors below.
Ryan stared at her. Really stared. Like he was trying to pull a memory out of her face.
Jane forced herself not to look away.
“I see,” he said finally. “Well. Your work is good, Ms. Miller. We’ll be in touch.”
That was it.
Dismissed.
*In the Elevator*
Jane’s legs gave out the second the doors closed.
She slid down and sat on the floor, breathing hard.
_He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know._
Her phone buzzed. Bella.
*Bella*: _How did it go???_
*Jane*: _Fine. I think. He didn’t recognize me._
*Bella*: _Thank God. Come home. Now._
*Meanwhile - 52nd Floor*
The second Jane left, Ryan stood up.
“Pull her file,” he told Mira. “Everything. School records. Housing. Birth certificates.”
“Sir,” Mira said carefully. “The twins’ birth certificates list no father.”
“I know,” Ryan said. He picked up the crayon drawing from his desk. Someone had left it there. Probably fell from Jane’s portfolio.
Two stick figures. One tall with black hair. Two small ones.
Under it, in kid handwriting: _Me + Mom + Aiden_
Ryan turned it over. On the back: _Aria drew this_
Aria.
Aiden.
Four years old.
“Get me a DNA test,” Ryan said quietly. “Discreet. Today.”
Mira nodded and left.
Ryan walked to the window.
Vanilla.
That smell from 5 years ago.
He could still remember it when he closed his eyes.
*That Evening - The Bedsit*
The twins were asleep. Grandma was washing dishes.
Jane told her everything. The questions. The stare. The drawing.
Grandma dried her hands slowly. “We need to leave.”
“We can’t,” Jane said. “Rent’s paid. The job—”
“If he finds out, he can take them,” Grandma snapped. “You know how men like him work. Lawyers. Courts. Money.”
Jane shook her head. “He didn’t recognize me. I swear, Grandma. It was just... coincidence.”
“Coincidence,” Grandma repeated. “That the richest man in America flies to London the same week you bump into him? That he asks about your kids?”
Jane had no answer.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
*Unknown*: _Ms. Miller. Sterling Corp would like to offer you the contract. Start Monday. -Mira_
Jane stared at it.
Money. Insurance. A bigger apartment.
Or danger.
She looked at Aiden and Aria sleeping in the next room.
Aiden had kicked the blanket off. His hair fell over his forehead exactly like Ryan’s did.
“Monday,” Jane whispered. “We start Monday.”
Grandma didn’t argue. She just pulled Jane into a hug.
“Then we fight,” Grandma said. “With what we have.”
*Late Night - Ryan’s Hotel Suite*
Ryan couldn’t sleep.
On the table: two photos.
One: Him, age 5. Same eyes as Aiden.
Two: Aiden, age 4. Taken by Mira outside the school today.
94% match.
The lab report was on its way.
He poured a drink and didn’t touch it.
Instead he opened his laptop and googled “Jane Miller Port Harcourt.”
Nothing.
No Jane Miller born in Port Harcourt 24 years ago.
But there was a Jane Carter.
Daughter of Thomas Carter. Missing 5 years.
Ryan closed the laptop.
His heart was pounding.
_Jane Carter._
_The girl from the Carter house._
_The wrong room._
He picked up his phone.
“Change my flight,” he told his assistant. “I’m not leaving London.”