Page 52 of Secret Baby Daddy

I lie awake considerably longer than the hour warrants, turning over the vertigo of being jealous of a man who might not exist, envied by a woman who does not know she’s already chosen him.

I have spent twelve years building a life around the theory that the truth, however dangerous, is always the safer option.

Tonight, for the first time, I understand exactly why people choose otherwise.

It is not cowardice, not entirely.

It is the simple, human unwillingness to risk the one thing that has finally, after a year of careful anonymous honesty, started to feel like being known.

I fall asleep anyway, the coward’s version of resolve, and let tomorrow inherit a decision I am not yet brave enough to make tonight.

15

PIPER

I have watched Roman Vasseur work a room exactly once before, in Manhattan, and I recognized even then that his particular talent is not deception so much as timing, the surgical patience of a man willing to wait years for the exact moment a wound reopens most effectively.

Watching him do it a second time, on property Cordelia specifically barred him from, tells me everything about how little he fears the consequences of being caught.

He arrives at the Hudson Valley property unannounced, waved through the gate by a junior guard who apparently didn’t get the memo that Northbridge Capital’s advisor is no longer welcome anywhere near this family, and by the time Calder and I make it to the main hall, Roman is already standing by the fireplace like he owns the deed.

“Dominic.”

He says the name the way he did in Manhattan, warm and paternal and entirely counterfeit, a voice built for boardrooms and eulogies.

“I did try calling ahead. Your people are remarkably difficult to reach.”

“That’s not an accident.”

Calder’s voice comes out flat, controlled, but I’ve spent enough hours in close quarters with him now to hear the strain underneath it, a man holding a door shut against something enormous on the other side.

“You’re trespassing on private property, Roman. Again.”

“I’m concerned for an old friend.”

Roman’s eyes move to me, sharpen, calculate, before the warmth slides back over them like a mask settling into place.

“And for Ms. Vale, of course. Still managing the narrative, I trust? Still convinced the right sentence can fix anything?”

“I manage the truth, Mr. Vasseur. I’ve simply learned it needs better packaging than you’re used to providing.”

I keep my voice light, deliberately, because I’ve watched Calder go rigid beside me and I know exactly what Roman is doing: testing which one of us breaks first.

“Clever.”

Roman smiles, and it doesn’t reach anywhere near his eyes.

“You know, Dominic used to tell me stories like that were beneath him. He believed in raw fact. Uncomfortable truths, delivered without mercy.”

He turns back to Calder, and his voice drops into something quieter, more intimate.

“I wonder what changed. Or perhaps nothing has. Perhaps you’ve simply found a new person to blame when the truth turns out to be inconvenient.”

“Get to the point, Roman.”

“Sentiment is a luxury you cannot afford in this work. I told you that once, in a car outside a Zurich embassy, and you wrote it down. Do you still have the notebook?”

He lets that sit a beat, watching Calder not answer.