Elias hugged the violin case.
“My mother said never get in cars with rich men.”
Despite everything, Catherine almost smiled.
Victor nodded. “Smart woman.”
“She is.”
“I know.”
The boy blinked.
Victor swallowed. “I knew.”
Fifteen minutes later, Victor Hargrove stood outside his own mansion in the rain without an umbrella, waiting while Elias climbed into the back of a black car beside Catherine.
He did not sit beside the boy.
He did not try to touch him.
He sat in the front passenger seat, as if he had not earned anything closer.
The car pulled away from the mansion gates and drove into the older part of the city, where the streets narrowed, the buildings sagged, and the glow of wealth ended block by block.
Elias kept one hand on the violin case the entire ride.
Catherine sat beside him, quiet and gentle.
Victor watched the city through the windshield.
Every red light felt like punishment.
Every mile felt stolen.
Eleven years.
What had Liana endured in eleven years?
Had she been hungry while he sat at banquet tables?
Had she held their sick child at night while he negotiated hotel acquisitions?
Had Elias taken his first steps in a rented room while Victor drank alone in a penthouse, believing the boy dead?
The car stopped outside a small clinic connected to an old stone church. A flickering sign buzzed above the entrance. The waiting room light spilled weakly through rain-streaked glass.
Elias jumped out before the driver could open the door.
Victor followed slowly.
Inside, the clinic smelled of antiseptic, old coffee, and wet coats. A nurse behind the desk looked up, annoyed at first, then startled when she recognized Victor Hargrove.
Elias ignored her and hurried down the hall.
“Mom?”
His voice changed when he called her.
It softened.
It became younger.
Victor stopped outside the doorway of a small examination room.
He was suddenly afraid to enter.
Catherine stood beside him.
Inside the room, a woman lay propped against pillows beneath a thin blanket. Her hair, once copper-brown, was threaded with gray and tied loosely at the nape of her neck. Her face was thinner than memory. Her skin too pale. Her breathing careful.
But it was Liana.
Older.
Sicker.
Alive.
Elias rushed to her side.
“Mama, I’m sorry. I played at the house. I know you said not to go, but Mrs. Bell paid me, and we needed the medicine, and then he heard the song and—”
Liana lifted one trembling hand to his cheek.
“Slow down, love.”
Then she saw the doorway.
Her hand fell.
The room went still.
Victor could not move.
Liana stared at him as though death had returned wearing a suit.
“No,” she whispered.
Victor stepped into the room.
One step.
Only one.
“Liana.”
Her eyes filled instantly, but her face hardened.
“Get out.”
Elias turned toward Victor, alarmed.
Catherine remained in the hall, giving them space but not leaving.
Victor’s voice was barely audible. “I thought you were dead.”
Liana laughed once.
A terrible sound.
“No. That was supposed to be my line.”
Victor flinched.
She pushed herself higher against the pillows, fighting for breath. “Your father told me you wanted nothing to do with me. Your lawyer brought papers. He said you had chosen your inheritance. He said if I tried to contact you again, your family would take my baby.”
Victor’s eyes closed.
“I never knew.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No. I don’t expect anything.”
“Good.”
“I only need you to know it.”
She looked away, jaw trembling.
Victor reached into his coat and removed the photograph. Elias must have slipped it back to him in the car without realizing, or perhaps Catherine had handed it over. He did not remember.
Liana saw it and went very still.
“I kept a copy too,” she said.
Victor’s lips parted.
“They told me you burned everything,” he said.
“They told me you did.”
The words sat between them like eleven years of ashes.
Elias looked from his mother to Victor.
“What does that mean?”
Neither adult answered.
So Catherine did.
“It means someone lied to both of them.”
Elias frowned. “Why?”
Victor looked at him.
“Because money can make terrible people think they own other people’s lives.”
Liana’s eyes flashed. “Your father was not the only one.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know anything.”
Victor nodded. “Then tell me.”
She stared at him, suspicious of the softness.
Victor Hargrove had been many things in her memory. Passionate. Proud. Reckless. Tender when no one was watching. But never humble.
This man looked as though he had been hollowed out.
Liana’s voice shook. “I waited for you. I waited in that boarding house until the landlady told me I had to pay or leave. I wrote seven letters. Seven, Victor. I walked to your office until security threatened to call the police. Then Creed came. He had documents. He had your signature.”