Chapter 3
“Ten minutes.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“No.”
Gavin paused.
“I’ll tell him.”
Understanding dawned.
“Room twelve.”
I climbed the stairs.
My palms were damp by the time I reached the door.
I knocked.
Declan opened it.
For months, I had rehearsed seeing him again.
In some versions, I screamed.
In others, I slapped him.
In still others, I walked past him without speaking.
Reality was quieter.
He looked exhausted.
Declan Voss had always seemed perfectly assembled in Chicago. Dark suits. Controlled expression. Every movement deliberate.
The man standing in front of me wore a charcoal sweater and looked as though sleep had become something he remembered from another life.
His eyes dropped.
He saw my stomach.
Everything in his face changed.
Not possession.
Not triumph.
Wonder.
Then fear.
“Amelia.”
I stepped backward instinctively.
He immediately moved away from the doorway.
“You don’t have to come inside.”
“Thank you.”
We stood awkwardly in the hall.
His hands remained at his sides.
“How far along?”
“Seventeen weeks.”
He closed his eyes for one second.
When he opened them, they were bright.
“I didn’t know.”
“I know.”
“Is the baby healthy?”
“Yes.”
The tension in his shoulders loosened.
“Good.”
Just that.
Good.
No questions about gender.
No questions about names.
No questions about what the baby meant to his family.
I had expected all of them.
Instead, he said, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“So many things that ten minutes won’t cover them.”
“Try.”
He nodded.
“I should have told you about Savannah before agreeing to anything. I convinced myself I was protecting you from a temporary problem.”
“You let me find out on television.”
“I didn’t know the announcement had been moved forward.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“No.”
“You made decisions about what I could handle.”
“Yes.”
“I heard what you said.”
His jaw tightened.
“Gavin told me.”
“I read Savannah’s letter.”
He looked surprised.
“She wrote to you?”
“Apparently she has better communication skills than either of us.”
To my astonishment, Declan almost smiled.
It disappeared quickly.
“I never meant what you thought.”
“I know that now.”
“But you had every reason to think the worst.”
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
His answer surprised me.
“You spent almost a year watching me compartmentalize my life. I kept telling myself the ugly parts had nothing to do with you. Then I used language from that world while talking about you.”
He looked down the hall.
“I made you feel like a problem being managed.”
My throat tightened.
“I was terrified.”
“I know.”
“You searched for me.”
“Yes.”
“You had no right.”
“No.”
I blinked.
He continued before I could speak.
“The first days, I thought something had happened to you. After we confirmed you left willingly, I should have stopped.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because knowing you left voluntarily didn’t mean knowing you were safe.”
“That was still my choice.”
“Yes.”
There was no defense in his voice.
Only acknowledgment.
“I eventually understood that.”
“When?”
“Not quickly enough.”
We stood in silence.
Then his eyes moved toward my stomach again.
“Is the baby mine?”
The question was so gentle it hurt.
“Yes.”
He inhaled.
One breath.
Then another.
“All right.”
“That’s all?”
He looked at me.
“What am I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neither do I.”
For the first time since I had known him, Declan Voss looked completely uncertain.
It changed something.
“I’m not going back to Chicago,” I said.
“I’m not asking you to.”
“I don’t want our child growing up around your organization.”
“They won’t.”
I stared at him.
“You cannot promise that.”
“I can promise what I control.”
“And what exactly do you control?”
“My participation.”
I frowned.
He stepped toward the room, reached for something on a desk, then stopped.
“May I show you something?”
I nodded.
He returned with a thin folder.
Inside were legal documents.
Corporate restructuring agreements.
Trust arrangements.
Resignations.
I understood only fragments.
“What is this?”
“I’ve been leaving.”
“Leaving what?”
“The organization.”
May you like
I looked up sharply.
“That isn’t possible.”
