All Shades Of Us

Chapter 2: The Investigation

The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above, blending with the distant sounds of conversations and the rhythmic beeping of heart monitors. Aaliyah Scott stood in the center of the physical therapy room, her hands firmly on her hips, eyes fixed on her latest patient.

"Mr. Bernard," she said, her voice calm but firm, "you need to breathe while you stretch. If you hold your breath, it's going to tighten up even more."

The elderly man sitting on the therapy table grunted in response, his face flushed with frustration. "Breathing doesn't help my damn hip, Ms. Scott. Moving it does."

Aaliyah smiled, undeterred. "And breathing helps the movement, Mr. Bernard. Unless you'd like me to add an extra five minutes to your session for arguing?"

He scowled, but a reluctant chuckle escaped him. "Alright, alright, fine. You win."

"I always do." Her tone was breezy, but her gaze was steady as she guided him through the next exercise. "Now lean forward—gently—and hold it for ten seconds."

As Mr. Bernard complied, Aaliyah couldn't help but glance at the time. Her afternoon schedule was packed as usual, and she'd barely had time to inhale the protein smoothie she'd brought from home. But this work, demanding as it was, gave her purpose.

She adjusted Mr. Bernard's posture slightly, her tone softening. "That's better. You've got this. It's not about perfection, just progress."

When the session ended, she helped him off the table, watching as he shuffled toward the door with a faint smile on his face. Small victories, she thought to herself.

"Another miracle worker moment?" a voice called out from behind her.

Aaliyah turned to see Jordan, a fellow therapist, leaning casually against the counter. His white coat hung loose over his scrubs, and his easy grin suggested he'd been watching her session.

"Just another day at the office," she replied, wiping her hands with a towel.

Jordan cocked his head. "You make it look easy, but I know Bernard's a tough one. If you ever need to trade patients, I'm happy to take one for the team."

Aaliyah raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a teasing smile. "And let you charm your way out of actually helping them? No thanks."

Jordan laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Fair enough. But hey, if you ever want to grab dinner or coffee or—"

"Jordan," she interrupted, her tone playful but definitive, "I think we both know where this conversation is going, and my answer is the same as last time. Thanks, but no thanks."

He chuckled, shrugging as if unbothered. "Can't blame me for trying. You're impossible not to like."

Aaliyah shook her head, returning to her notes. Jordan was harmless, but she wasn't looking for complications. Her focus was on Kai and keeping their life steady—no distractions, no entanglements.

Killian stared at the folder in his hands, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. The dim light of his office cast long shadows over the sleek furniture, but the contents of the report in front of him illuminated everything he needed to know.

"Kai Scott," he murmured, the name feeling heavier now.

James sat across from him, his expression neutral as always. "The timeline checks out," he said. "Your encounter with Aaliyah Scott in Chicago matches the window of conception. And there's no mention of a father in any of Kai's records. It's her raising him solo."

Killian flipped through the photos. One was of Aaliyah and Kai walking to a run-down apartment complex, her arm draped protectively around the boy. Another showed them at a park, Kai holding a basketball, his face alight with laughter.

And then there were the close-ups: Kai's eyes—his eyes. Hazel-green, sharp, and filled with mischief.

"I'm not imagining this, am I?" Killian asked, though he already knew the answer.

James shook his head. "The resemblance is undeniable. This kid is yours."

Killian's stomach tightened. Seven years. Seven years, and he'd had no idea. Anger flickered at the edges of his thoughts—anger at Aaliyah for not telling him, anger at himself for never looking back at the woman from that night.

"Anything else on her?" Killian asked, his tone colder now.

"She's a physical therapist, seems to work a lot of hours. Lives in a rough neighborhood. No criminal record, no scandals. Just a single mom doing her best." James paused, his gaze steady. "She's not exactly the gold-digger type, if that's what you're wondering."

Killian's lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't jump to conclusions."

James raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Killian leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. He didn't know Aaliyah, not really. But the image of her from that night was burned into his memory—her sharp wit, her unapologetic confidence. She wasn't like the women he usually encountered.

And now she was raising his son.

Flashback to Seven Years Ago

The dimly lit bar hummed with energy, the chatter of voices blending with the sultry tones of live jazz. Killian sat at the counter, nursing a whiskey on the rocks. It was one of those rare nights off—no cameras, no responsibilities, just a chance to breathe.

He felt her presence before he saw her.

"Is this seat taken?"

Her voice was smooth, with a hint of challenge. He turned to see a woman with striking silver hair cascading over her shoulders, her glowing skin catching the light. Her eyes met his, calm but piercing, as if she already knew what he was going to say.

"It is now," he replied, motioning for her to sit.

She ordered a drink, her movements fluid and unhurried. They exchanged pleasantries, but the conversation quickly turned sharp and teasing.

"You're good at this," she said, a sly smile tugging at her lips.

"Good at what?"

"Pretending you're not just another rich boy looking for attention."

Killian laughed, genuinely amused. "And you're good at seeing through people, huh?"

"Someone has to be."

The night blurred after that. They left the bar together, her hand warm in his as they stumbled into his hotel suite. There was no pretense, no small talk, just raw energy and the sense that they both needed to forget the world for a while.

The next morning, Killian woke up to an empty bed. A scribbled note on the nightstand read: Thanks for the distraction. Don't lose yourself, pretty boy.

He hadn't thought much of it at the time. Just another fleeting moment in a life filled with them.

Now, seven years later, that night was coming back to haunt him in ways he never imagined.

End of Flashback

Killian closed the folder, his jaw set.

"Find her," he said to James, his voice steely. "I want to meet my son."