Part 2: For a moment, old Blake seemed to glow—the man she had loved before pride and suspicion destroyed them. Then his mask returned.
“I want to talk.”
“I want to bring my sons home.”
His eyes flashed. “Our sons.”
The air shifted.
Oliver looked up. “Ours?”
Blake realized his mistake too late.
“Mom,” Oliver asked carefully, “is he our father?”
Emma knelt before them, hoping she could undo the moment.
“There are things we need to talk about,” she said softly. “But not here.”
“But is he?” Oliver pressed.
Emma touched his cheek. “Yes.”
Blake inhaled sharply.
Ethan looked at him. Noah hid behind Emma. Oliver went silent, and that silence hurt the most
part 3
Blake Harrington had survived market crashes, hostile boardrooms, and billion-dollar failures without losing his composure.
But outside Chicago O’Hare, when he saw three little boys clinging to Emma’s coat, all the confidence drained from his face.
Oliver noticed him first.
“Mom,” the five-year-old whispered, “who is that man?”
Blake flinched. Before Emma could answer, Ethan tilted his head and said, “He looks like us.”
Noah pressed closer to her leg.
read more in next page
