Thirteen
Matteo
I t’s been a stressful two weeks. The police weren’t interested in pursuing our parents’ case. Despite the letters, they classify the accident as just that. So we’ve got Jim and his team at Clear Security working on who might be behind the letters.
But I’m not going to think about that.
Today, Willow Jackson is here to see the daughter she left four months ago with Miguel at the front door of my building.
I straighten my tie and check Amelia’s diaper one more time, even though Trixie already did, five minutes ago.
“You don’t have to be so nervous,” she says, watching me pace.
“Says the woman who’s not facing a possible custody battle.” I shoot her a look. “She could file for child support. Try to take Amelia to Wisconsin. That doesn’t work for me.”
“If she left her baby with a doorman, Matteo, she’s not exactly campaigning for mother of the year.”
Before I can answer, the house phone rings.
“Ms. Jackson’s here,” the doorman says.
I scoop Amelia into my arms and move to the elevator doors, my heart pounding as we wait. Every passing second tightens my chest. I glance down at Amelia. Her little fingers tug at the collar of my shirt like she can feel the tension.
The elevator finally dings.
Willow steps out in a tight black dress more suited to a nightclub than a reunion with her toddler. Her eyes are too wide. She’s sniffling. Please don’t be sick. Amelia picks up everything.
But that’s not a cold. Her pupils are blown. My gut twists. She’s high.
My grip tightens on Amelia, every muscle in my body coiling. The primal part of me—father, protector, alpha—surges. I want her gone. Now.
“Matteo!” she squeals, throwing her arms around me. Her perfume is overwhelming, cloying. Amelia squirms, turning her face into my shoulder, her body going rigid. I have a faint memory of the night we were together at Dark Fantasy in the bathroom.
“It’s so great to see you,” Willow coos, looking at Amelia. “Look how big you’ve gotten, baby girl!”
I glance at Trixie. She sees it instantly—my worry, the truth in Willow’s eyes. Without a word, she steps closer, and Amelia immediately reaches for her.
Willow tries to coax her into a hug, but Amelia buries herself deeper into Trixie’s arms.
We head inside my unit, and I keep close even as Amelia clings to Trixie like a lifeline.
“Wow,” Willow says, spinning in a slow circle as she walks through the foyer. “This place is enormous. I could move in here, and you’d never even notice.”
I fight the urge to groan. The apartment may stretch across a quarter of a city block, but I’d notice. Immediately.
Willow makes another attempt to hold Amelia. She’s met with stiff resistance. Trixie stays calm, rocking Amelia gently, silently grounding both of us.
We settle into the living room. Willow flops onto the center of the couch like she owns it. I take the armchair across from her. Trixie settles between us, Amelia still in her lap.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I offer. “Coffee? Tea?”
“Got any vodka?”
My jaw tightens.
Willow laughs. “Kidding. God, relax.” She rolls her eyes.
“Let’s see if she’ll sit on your lap if I’m sitting with you,” Trixie offers.
“Sure.” Willow sits up straight, and Trixie eases Amelia into her lap. Maybe she’ll sit for just a minute.
Nope.
Amelia bursts into tears, scrambling back to Trixie the second her feet touch fabric. Her tiny hands clutch at Trixie’s shirt like she’s afraid I’ll make her go back.
Willow’s expression crumples. Her eyes shine with tears. “I’m such a terrible mother. I left my baby with a stranger, and now, she hates me.”
“I don’t think it’s that,” Trixie says gently. “She’s in a stranger danger phase. Anyone unfamiliar is a no-go.”
“I’m not unfamiliar,” Willow snaps, her voice cracking. “She was with me for nine months before she was even born. And another eight after that.” She wipes at her cheek, her shoulders sagging. “Still. Thank you. For flying me out. For letting me see her. It means more than you know.”
I nod, though the knot in my gut tightens.
“Trixie made dinner,” I say, trying to redirect. “Roast chicken and vegetables. One of my favorites.”
“Oh.” Willow rises, smoothing the front of her dress. “I don’t eat meat.”
Trixie lifts a brow. “When I asked about dietary restrictions, you said you ate everything.”
Willow angles herself sideways, gesturing toward the faint curve of her stomach. “Just decided to go vegetarian. Trying to lose the last of the baby weight.”
The room falls into a quiet that feels far too loud.
And in that silence, I realize this is not a reunion.
This is a reckoning.
Then, looking straight at Trixie, Willow adds, “I can’t be fat like you.”
Silence slams into the room. The words hang there, acidic and absurd. I blink, stunned she said it out loud and surprised she had the gall. Trixie doesn’t even flinch. But I do.
I’m stunned. But Trixie offers a cool, practiced smile, the kind that slices deeper than any insult.
“Okay, sweet thing,” she says evenly. “Let’s get you ready for dinner.”
She lifts Amelia and teases her as she slips her into her highchair and attaches a bib. She lets her explore the plate at her own pace. Amelia immediately grabs a fistful of green beans and smears them across her face, giggling with delight.
“Looks like she inherited your messiness,” Willow laughs. “Definitely not from my side.”
I ignore her. “She’s adorable,” I say, keeping my focus on Amelia, letting her joy be the only thing that matters right now.
Willow picks at her vegetables, barely looking at Amelia as she chatters on about her life, her friends, the clubs she’s visiting while she’s in town, the outfits she’s packed. She doesn’t ask a single question about her daughter.
This was a mistake.
After dinner, I stand. “I have work in the morning. But you’re welcome to spend the day with Amelia. Trixie will be here.”
Willow gives a distracted wave. “Oh, that’d be great.”
Trixie scoops up Amelia and takes her off for bedtime, humming softly as they go. The second they disappear down the hall, Willow slides closer on the couch, her hand resting on my thigh.
“Can you believe we made that beautiful baby together?” she says, her voice suddenly soft.
“She’s perfect,” I say, careful, quiet. “She looks just like my mom did at that age.”
“I was so shocked when I found out I was pregnant. I didn’t know what to do.”
“You could’ve called,” I say evenly. “I would’ve helped with bills, whatever you needed.”
“I didn’t know how to find you. Really I couldn’t remember your name until I saw you in the newspaper.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. That night wasn’t exactly built for longevity.”
She smiles, coy. “Maybe now we could…explore some things.”
She leans in, lips puckered.
I pull back. “That’s not going to happen.”
“I made you happy last time,” she whispers, her fingers sliding up my thigh. “I could do it again.”
“I’m seeing someone,” I say, firmly.
She draws a slow line along my leg. “You sure I can’t change your mind?”
I stand. “I’m sure.”
And I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.
Trixie texted me when Willow arrived—an hour and a half late—and again when she left twenty minutes later.
According to Trixie, the visit was…fine. Willow spent most of the time talking about reconnecting with old friends and hitting the hotel bar scene. I’m already bracing for a steep room charge.
“You sure you don’t want to come to dinner?” I ask, slinging Amelia’s diaper bag over my shoulder.
Trixie shakes her head. “It’s better if it’s just the three of you. You’ll get a clear picture of how she handles Amelia. And I know you’ll step in if things go sideways.”
I narrow my eyes. “Is this a test? Because I trust your judgment. If you say there’s a problem, I believe you. I don’t need to see it for myself.”
She smiles faintly. “After that dig she threw at me yesterday, I might be a little biased.”
Fair enough. “You know she’s full of it, right?”
Her smile deepens. “Thanks for saying that.”
She’s more than earned a bonus when Willow’s out of our lives for good.
I kiss Amelia’s cheek. “All right. We’ll see how it goes.”
Dinner with a nearly one-year-old is never easy, especially at bedtime, but I want Willow to have a real chance. To show up. To try.
The restaurant she chose is trendy—no surprise—and we’re already seated when she still hasn’t shown.
Amelia’s restless. Diners nearby are beginning to notice.
I bounce her gently, give her a bottle. A few women at surrounding tables offer warm, sympathetic smiles, the kind reserved for dads doing their best alone.
Twenty minutes pass. Still no Willow.
Just as I’m about to call it, she arrives, strutting in like it’s a red carpet, not dinner with her toddler. Sequined black dress. Stilettos. Zero awareness.
She greets me with air kisses, then immediately snatches Amelia from my arms.
Amelia wakes with a shriek, startled and disoriented. Heads turn. Phones lift. At least two people are filming.
Willow flinches and shoves Amelia back at me. “See? She hates me.”
I grit my teeth and rock Amelia gently. “Willow, ever hear the phrase ‘don’t wake a sleeping baby’?”
She flips her hair. “Why is she sleeping so early?”
“I told you when you insisted on a seven p.m. dinner that it’s her bedtime. And you were twenty minutes late.”
Amelia’s wailing hits full volume. She bats the bottle away, inconsolable.
I’ve had enough. “I need to get her home.”
I drop a hundred-dollar bill on the table. “You’ll have to see her tomorrow.”
Willow’s gaze snaps to the cash. “I have plans with friends tomorrow.”
I stare at her. “I thought you came here to see your daughter.”
“I did,” she says, exasperated. “I just didn’t expect her to be so…needy.”
I honestly can’t tell if she’s high again or just this self-absorbed.
The server appears as I scoop up the bill and hand it to her. “Sorry for the disruption,” I say.
She waves it off with a smile. “I’ve got kids. You can’t schedule a meltdown.”