When he opened them, the careful corporate mask had slipped. Beneath it was a man carrying a wound so old it had become part of his posture.
“I loved her,” he said.
The room seemed to still.
“She worked as a translator for one of our European offices before Cross Atlantic became what it is now. She was brilliant. Stubborn. Funny in a way that made you feel foolish and grateful at the same time.” His gaze moved to my face, as though searching for pieces of her there. “We were together for almost a year.”
“My mother never told me.”
“She left before she knew she was pregnant. At least, that is what I believed for a long time.”
“What happened?”
A shadow crossed his features. “My family happened. Her family. Money. Fear. Pride. A dozen things that matter terribly to young people until they destroy what actually mattered.”
I stared at him, trying to fit this man into the empty spaces my mother had left behind. She had been gentle but guarded, always careful when I asked about my father. She told me he was gone. Not dead. Not cruel. Just gone.
When she died, I found the photograph.
And the letter addressed to me.
If anything ever happens and you need help, find Adrian Cross.
I had never looked for him.
Pride, maybe.
Or fear.
Or the belief that if he had wanted me, he would have found me.
“Did you know about me?” I asked.
“No.”
The answer came quickly. Painfully.
“I swear to you, Elena, I did not know. Not until six weeks ago.”
Six weeks.
I felt my fingers curl against the blanket.
“You found out six weeks ago and didn’t contact me?”
“I tried.”
“No one called me.”
“Three calls were made to your personal phone. All went unanswered. Two letters were sent to your home in Denver. Both were signed for.”
My mouth went dry.
Victor.
Victor had always brought in the mail. Victor had replaced my phone after claiming mine was outdated. Victor had laughed whenever I misplaced things, calling me forgetful, especially during pregnancy.
“What did the letters say?” I asked.
“That I wished to speak with you privately regarding your mother’s estate.”
“My mother’s estate?”
“It seemed less alarming than claiming to be your father in a letter.”
I stared at the ceiling, nausea rolling through me.
Victor had known.
Maybe not everything, but enough. Enough to intercept. Enough to worry. Enough to hurry.
“Victor increased the policy nine weeks ago,” Adrian said quietly.
I turned back to him.
“He increased it?”
“From five million to fifty.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
His eyes sharpened. “Your signature is on the amendment.”
“I didn’t sign anything.”
“I believe you.”
I remembered Victor at the breakfast table with papers beside my tea.
Just routine financial updates, sweetheart. Pregnancy brain is real. Let me handle the complicated parts.
My own voice came back to me, tired and distracted.
Where do I sign?
