Chapter 1 - THE FIVE YEARS BETWEEN US
Blake kept staring at the photograph.
Around us, tray tables clicked shut as the flight attendants prepared the cabin for landing. A man across the aisle glanced in our direction, then quickly looked away when Blake raised his head.
“How old are they?”
“Four years and five months.”
He did the calculation silently.
His thumb moved over Oliver’s face, then Henry’s, then Miles’s.
“When did you find out?”
“Eleven days after you filed for divorce.”
The muscles along his jaw tightened.
“And you decided I didn’t deserve to know?”
“I tried to tell you.”
“No.”
It came out too quickly.
I fastened my seat belt. “That isn’t a question, Blake.”
“I never received a call, an email, a message—nothing.”
“I called your private number twice. The first time, someone disconnected me. The second time, your assistant told me all communication had to go through counsel.”
“That was because you refused to explain who you were meeting.”
“I explained. You chose not to hear it.”
The airplane tilted beneath us. Blake gripped the photograph against his knee.
“Are they mine?”
The question cut more deeply than I expected.
I looked directly at him. “Yes.”
“That isn’t proof.”
“No. It’s the truth.”
“You had five years to construct whatever version of the truth made you comfortable.”
“And you had one evening to destroy our marriage.”
He looked toward the window.
I regretted the words as soon as I said them—not because they were false, but because they reduced five years of decisions to a single night. Blake had refused to listen. I had responded by building a life in which he could no longer reach me.
Neither choice was innocent.
The wheels struck the runway. Blake barely reacted.
“Where do they live?”
“With me.”
“In Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“What school?”
“You are not getting their school’s name in an airplane cabin.”
“They’re my children.”
“They’re children who don’t know you.”
His face hardened again, but the cruelty he had carried onto the plane was gone.
“What have you told them about their father?”
“That he lives in New York and doesn’t know them.”
“Why would they believe that?”
“Because it was the least damaging truth I could give them.”
The plane reached the gate. Passengers stood, filling the aisle before the doors opened.
Blake remained seated.
“I want a DNA test.”
“I expected that.”
“And I want to meet them today.”
“No.”
His eyes snapped toward me.
“You showed me their photograph and expected me to walk away?”
“I expected you to understand that four-year-olds are not evidence you can inspect.”
“They’re nearly five.”
“You don’t know which one hates peas, which one needs an inhaler during allergy season, or which one crawls into my bed when it storms. You don’t get to arrive as a stranger and demand that they absorb your shock.”
Blake stood when the aisle cleared.
“You’re going to hear from my attorney.”
“I assumed I would.”
We walked through the jet bridge without speaking. Blake stayed close enough that I could hear his shoes behind me but never touched me.
At baggage claim, he made two calls. On the first, he instructed someone to cancel his afternoon meetings. On the second, he said only, “I need family counsel in Illinois. Today.”
Outside Terminal 3, cold March wind curled beneath my cashmere wrap.
A black Bentley pulled toward the curb. It belonged to Northstar Environmental, the research company I had helped build after leaving New York. My sister Claire sat beside the driver.
Before she could step out, the rear door opened.
“Mom!”
Oliver reached me first. Henry caught my hand, and Miles wrapped both arms around my leg hard enough to shift my balance.
I crouched and gathered them together.
“You were supposed to wait for Aunt Claire.”
“We saw you,” Henry said, as though that settled every question.
Miles noticed Blake first.
He leaned against my shoulder and studied him with open curiosity.
Blake stood several feet away, still holding the photograph.
Seeing the boys in person seemed to strip away whatever argument he had prepared. Oliver had Blake’s habit of lifting one eyebrow when suspicious. Henry’s smile tilted left. Miles had the small cleft in his chin that appeared in every Harrington family portrait.
Claire came around the car and stopped when she recognized him.
“Emma?”
“I know.”
Blake stepped forward.
All three boys moved closer to me.
He stopped immediately.
“I’m Blake,” he said.
Oliver looked up at me. “Is he your friend?”
“No,” I said. “But he is someone important.”
Blake lowered himself until he was closer to their height.
His expensive suit creased at the knees. He seemed not to notice.
“I knew your mom a long time ago.”
Miles pointed toward the photograph. “Why do you have us?”
Blake glanced down at it.
“Your mom gave it to me.”
“I didn’t say you could keep it,” Miles replied.
For one brief second, Blake almost smiled.
Then a phone appeared near the barricade. A man in a gray coat was photographing us.
Blake’s expression changed at once.
“Get them in the car.”
Claire opened the rear door. I guided the boys inside while Blake moved between them and the camera.
The man backed away, still taking pictures.
“Who is that?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You have an entire public-relations department. Don’t tell me you don’t recognize your own people.”
“He isn’t mine.”
Blake called someone while the driver loaded my suitcase.
Claire took the front seat. I climbed into the back with the boys.
Before the door closed, Blake put one hand against it.
“I will not let the press get near them.”
“You don’t get to make promises for this family.”
“I know.”
His answer surprised me.
He released the door.
My phone rang before we left the airport property.
The caller introduced herself as a Chicago family-law attorney representing Blake Harrington.
May you like
He had been a father for less than twenty minutes.
He was already preparing to take me to court.
