Grace called, “Give me five more minutes.”
“Okay!”
Dominic waited until he heard the boy’s footsteps retreat.
Then he said, “Is he my son?”
Grace was silent.
He did not move closer.
He did not repeat the question.
Finally she nodded.
“Yes.”
Dominic stared at her.
No dramatic revelation could have struck harder than that quiet answer.
His son.
Seven Christmas mornings.
Seven birthdays.
Seven years of scraped knees, fevers, first words, bedtime stories, school mornings, lost teeth, crooked Christmas stars.
He had missed all of it.
His first instinct was anger.
Not at Noah.
Not even entirely at Grace.
At the years themselves.
Time was the one thing no amount of money, fear, influence, or power could force backward.
“You should have told me,” he said.
Grace’s eyes flashed.
“And you should have listened.”
“I had a right to know.”
“You did.”
Her agreement stopped him.
Grace drew in a breath.
“You had a right to know.
I was afraid.
I was angry.
I told myself I was protecting him, and some of that was true.
But some of it was me protecting myself from you.”
Dominic said nothing.
“I knew what happened when people became important to you,” she continued.
“Drivers.
Guards.
Locked gates.
Every stranger treated like a threat.
Every decision made before I even knew there was a decision.
I couldn’t put a baby into that world.”
“He would have been protected.”
“That was exactly what scared me.”
Dominic’s gaze hardened.
Grace stepped closer to the table.
“You hear protection and think walls.
I hear it and remember being followed to the grocery store by men you assigned without telling me.”
“They were there because there had been threats.”
“And you never explained the threats.
You just took control.”
He opened his mouth.
Then stopped.
The old Dominic would have argued until the facts became weapons.
The man standing in Grace’s kitchen looked toward the staircase instead.
“What does Noah know about his father?”
“That he wasn’t part of our lives.”
