Chapter 3 - WHAT HE ACTUALLY SAID
Declan remained in my living room long after the Christmas tree lights switched automatically to their nighttime setting.
James needed feeding.
Life with a newborn did not care that his father had just discovered five months of grief were built on a misunderstanding.
“I need to feed him,” I said.
Declan immediately stood.
“I'll go.”
The answer surprised me.
“You don't have to.”
“I don't know whether you want me here.”
I looked at him.
This was new.
Declan asking instead of deciding.
“You can stay.”
He sat again.
I took James into the small nursery off the hallway, fed him, changed him and returned twenty minutes later. Declan had not moved.
The blue legal folder remained open on the coffee table.
He had read every page.
“You want coffee?”
His eyes lifted.
“No.”
“That's how I know you're in shock.”
A faint, miserable smile appeared and vanished.
James made a soft sound.
Declan's entire attention snapped toward him.
“Can I…”
He stopped.
I waited.
“Can I hold him?”
Fear moved through me so quickly I hated myself for it.
Declan saw.
That was worse.
His expression changed.
“It's okay.”
“No.”
I swallowed.
“You should.”
I sat beside him and explained how to support James's head. Declan looked offended until I reminded myself that this man had negotiated acquisitions across three continents and probably believed he was being insulted by instructions on how to hold seven pounds of sleeping baby.
Then I placed James in his arms.
Every trace of arrogance disappeared.
Declan stopped moving.
James slept through the transfer.
His tiny hand opened against Declan's shirt.
Declan stared.
“He's so small.”
“He was six pounds fourteen ounces.”
His eyes filled.
“Was he early?”
“A little.”
“Was he okay?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
I hesitated.
“I am now.”
Declan looked at the pale scar hidden beneath my clothes as though he could somehow see it.
“I should've been there.”
The sentence was so quiet that I almost pretended not to hear.
“You didn't know.”
“I should have made it possible for you to tell me.”
That was different.
I looked at him.
Declan kept his gaze on James.
“I keep wanting to say you should have told me anyway.”
“You can.”
“I know.”
He swallowed.
“But then I read that document and I remember exactly who I was during those last months.”
“Declan—”
“No.”
He looked up.
“Don't make this easier because I'm holding him.”
The request stopped me.
His phone was on the table.
He picked it up.
“I'm calling Martin.”
“It's Christmas Eve.”
“I don't care.”
I almost smiled.
Some habits survived emotional revelation.
Martin Hale answered on the fourth ring, sounding half asleep and immediately more awake when Declan said his name.
“I need you to remember March.”
A pause.
“Which matter?”
“My divorce.”
Silence.
Declan's jaw tightened.
“The draft you sent Daniel Ward.”
More silence.
Then Martin said, “I remember.”
“Did I approve the child provisions?”
I watched Declan's face.
Martin answered carefully.
“Not individually.”
“What does that mean?”
“You instructed me to secure Rowan assets, prevent removal of family property, and make sure any future Rowan heir could not be relocated out of Washington without your consent.”
Declan stopped moving.
There it was.
Not innocence.
Not exactly.
He had not ordered anybody to take my child.
But he had spoken about hypothetical future children as though jurisdiction over them belonged naturally inside the same conversation as shares and real estate.
“Did I see the draft?”
“No.”
“Did Elena?”
“Her counsel did.”
“Why wasn't I copied?”
“You told me to handle it.”
Declan closed his eyes.
I remembered that phrase too.
Handle it.
Probably one of the most dangerous sentences powerful men ever gave competent employees.
Declan asked, “Did you know she was pregnant?”
“No.”
“Would it have changed the draft?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“We would have approached it as an actual parenting matter instead of contingency language.”
Declan laughed once without humor.
“That's supposed to make me feel better?”
“No.”
Martin paused.
“Declan, you were angry. You believed she was involved with Ward.”
“I know.”
“You told me to protect you.”
Declan looked at me.
His eyes were full of something I had almost never seen there.
Shame.
“I told you to protect me from my wife.”
Martin did not answer.
Declan ended the call.
For several moments James's breathing was the only sound in the room.
Finally Declan said, “I did this.”
I shook my head.
“Not all of it.”
“Enough.”
“You didn't know.”
“I didn't ask.”
His eyes dropped toward James.
“I saw you with Daniel and decided I already understood. You asked about a document I hadn't read, and instead of finding out why it scared you, I got angry that you'd hired a lawyer.”
He looked at me.
“I made being married to me feel like preparing for litigation.”
I did not answer.
Because he was right.
Declan looked back at James.
“Was Daniel ever anything more?”
“No.”
“After the divorce?”
“No.”
He inhaled slowly.
“Then why was his car here tonight?”
I almost laughed.
“He brought this.”
I tapped the folder.
“And a portable bassinet his wife insisted I borrow.”
Declan's expression tightened.
“His wife.”
“Yes, Declan. Daniel has been married to Rachel for four years.”
He stared at me.
“You knew that?”
“I attended the wedding.”
He rubbed one hand over his face.
“I may be the stupidest man in Seattle.”
“Tonight?”
His mouth twitched.
“Possibly longer.”
The humor disappeared quickly.
“What happens now?”
The question frightened me.
I tightened my arms even though James was still in Declan's.
He noticed.
And instead of defending himself, he handed our son back immediately.
That mattered more than I wanted it to.
“I don't know.”
“I want to know him.”
“I know.”
“I want to be his father.”
“I know.”
“But you're afraid I'll turn that into lawyers.”
“Yes.”
Declan nodded.
The answer hurt him.
He let it.
“What would make you less afraid?”
I thought about it.
Not trust me.
Not I would never.
Those were words.
“I need something you can't change when you're angry.”
He understood.
“A parenting agreement.”
“Yes.”
“You choose the lawyer.”
“I already have one.”
That earned the ghost of a smile.
“Daniel.”
“Daniel.”
Declan looked almost physically pained by the irony.
“Fine.”
“And no private investigators.”
His eyes flickered.
I saw it.
My stomach dropped.
“Declan.”
“Elena—”
“You had me followed?”
“After the divorce.”
My entire body went cold.
“For how long?”
“Three weeks.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought Daniel had moved in.”
I stood too quickly and pain pulled through my abdomen.
Declan rose.
Then stopped himself from reaching for me.
Good.
“You don't get to do that again.”
“I know.”
“No, listen to me. You don't get to discover you have a son and suddenly decide surveillance is concern.”
“I won't.”
“Security doesn't watch my house.”
“Agreed.”
“Your employees don't report who visits.”
“Agreed.”
“You don't show up unannounced.”
His face tightened.
Tonight's mistake sitting between us.
“Agreed.”
“And you don't threaten Daniel.”
“I wasn't planning—”
I stared.
Declan sighed.
“Agreed.”
James began fussing.
I looked down.
When I looked back, Declan was watching us with an expression that hurt to see.
“You should go.”
His face fell.
But he nodded.
At the door he stopped.
“Can I come back tomorrow?”
Christmas morning.
I almost said no.
Then James made a tiny sleepy noise.
“Ten.”
Declan swallowed.
“Ten.”
“And don't bring him a car.”
That startled a laugh out of him.
“He's five days old.”
“You're a billionaire. I don't know what your people consider age appropriate.”
His smile faded into something softer.
“Merry Christmas, Elena.”
I looked at the man I had once expected to spend every Christmas with.
“Merry Christmas, Declan.”
He stepped into the snow.
May you like
For the first time since our divorce, I watched him leave without feeling relieved.
That scared me almost as much as watching him arrive.
