Chapter Nineteen
Brody
I don’t hit the brake once on the way out of the Titans practice facility.
My knuckles are white against the top of my steering wheel as my truck eats up the miles toward the Hudson. My phone is clipped to the dash, running a direct line to Charles Renwick’s private phone.
It goes straight to voicemail for the third time.
“You’ve reached the office of Charles Randwick, leave a message.”
I don’t leave a message. I don’t have time to play phone tag with a man whose ego is currently threatening to drag my girlfriend and our unborn son into a tabloid meat grinder.
Charles is used to managing people with subpoenas, threats, retainer, fees, and boardroom bluster.
And even though I get along with Charles, he doesn’t know how to handle someone who has zero interest in his money and even less respect for his legal posturing.
I tap the screen again, scrolling past Charles’s contact and hit Molly’s number.
Ellis’s mother answers on the second ring, her voice warm and light, and I can hear the faint rhythmic clicking of fine China in the background. “Brody dear, how are you? I was just telling Charles this morning that we haven’t seen enough of you two lately.”
“Molly,” I cut in smoothly, keeping my tone perfectly respectful but locking down the steel beneath it. “Is Charles with you?”
There’s a slight pause on the line. “He actually just walked through the front door. He and Brian are back from Midtown. Is everything okay, Brody? You sound awfully serious.”
“I need to speak with both of you immediately," I say, flipping my blinker and cutting across two lanes of traffic toward the Lincoln Tunnel. “It can’t wait until tomorrow, and it can’t be done over a phone call.”
“Oh,” Molly says, her voice brightening instantly, a sudden conspiratorial lift creeping into her cadence. “Oh my. Well, we aren’t in Greenwich tonight, darling. Charles has meetings all week, so we’re staying at the brownstone on the East Side. Are you in the city?”
“I’m ten minutes out from the tunnel,” I tell her. “I’m heading straight to you now.”
“Wonderful, I’ll tell George to open the gate for your truck. See you in a few minutes.”
“Thanks, Molly.”
I end the call, immediately clearing the screen and tapping Ellis’s contact. She picks up before the first ring even finishes, her voice echoing through the cab.
“Brody? Her voice comes through crisp, calm, and totally centered. “Where are you?”
“Just hitting the tunnel,” I say, veering the truck into the dark tunnel beneath the river. “I spoke to your mother, and she and your father are at the brownstone tonight, not in Greenwich. I told her I’m coming over right now.”
“Brody, my dad is still fuming from our meeting,” Ellis warns gently, though there’s not a trace of panic in our tone. “He’s likely already sitting in his study with a glass of scotch waiting for his legal team to send over drafts.”
“Let him fume," I say with a dark, low grumble in my chest. “I want you there with me. I want to stand in that room together when I shut this down. Can you meet me there?”
“My driver is bringing the car around to the front of the building right now.” She answers without hesitation. “I’ll be at the brownstone in 15 minutes.”
“I love you,” I say softly, the tension in my shoulders, easing just a fraction at the sound of her voice.
“I love you too. Don’t break the door down before I get there, Vaughan.”
“No promises.”
The Renwick brownstone on East 73rd Street is a four-story limestone monster that looks like it belongs in the Gilded Age.
I park my pickup in the narrow driveway behind the wrought-iron security gate and step out into the cool evening air.
I pull my jacket straight over my shoulders, taking a slow, deep breath to anchor the adrenaline still lingering in my veins from Ellis’s call when I was in the weight room.
The front door opens before I even reach the top step.
Molly Renwick stands in the grand marble entryway dressed in a soft silk blouse and trousers. I expect the smile lighting up her face. “Brody! Look at you making wonderful time through the tunnel. Come in, come in!”
I step into the warm, quiet luxury of the foyer and lean down to give her a polite, warm side hug. “Thanks for seeing me on short notice.”
“Nonsense,” she says, shutting the heavy door behind me and taking my coat.
She looks up at me, her dark eyes sparkling with subtle, irrepressible excitement that catches me off guard.
She pats my arm, conspiratorially, leaning in close.
“Charles is in the study, but I must say, when you called sounding so formal, so urgent, well, let's just say, a mother knows.”
I raise my brow. “A mother knows what?”
“Oh, don’t play coy with me, Brody Vaughan,” Molly’s practically beaming as she smooths her hands down her pants.
“You’re a traditional boy, coming to the house unannounced, asking to speak with both parents immediately.
I know ‘I'm looking for a father’s blessing’ when I see one.
I told Charles to sit down and pour a drink because our future son-in-law is coming to make things official. ”
Fuck. A tight, low breath escapes my nose. Before I can gently correct her misunderstanding, a heavy pocket door at the end of the grand hallway slides open.
Charles steps out into the hall, a tumbler of amber liquid held firmly in his right hand.
He still wears his work suit, though his jacket is draped over an armchair behind him and his tie is loosened just an inch at his collar.
His silver hair is still immaculate, but his sharp face is set in a hard, unforgiving line as his dark eyes lock onto mine.
“Molly,” Charles says, his voice deep and gravely. “Leave us for a moment.”
“Oh, Charles, that’s not going to happen, dear.” Molly turns toward him with a wave of her hand. “He just got here, and Ellis is on her way up the steps right now. I just heard her car pull up.”
The heavy front door chimes a second later, and Ellis walks in.
She looks breathtaking, even at eight months pregnant.
She carries herself with an undeniable, effortless authority of a queen walking into her own court.
Her eyes sweep the hallway, immediately finding mine and the silent, unshakable trust that passes between us, and that single glance is enough to ground the entire room.
I step back, meeting her halfway, taking her handbag with one hand and resting my other hand against the small of her back as she steps next to me.
“You okay?” I murmur in her ear, feeling the heavy warmth of her body against mine.
“I’m fine,” she says back, her hand resting over mine on her waist. “Let’s do this.”
“Shall we move this into the study?” Charles asks, but it’s more like a command, and turns his back on us and straight into the expansive, wood-paneled room lined with gold-leafed paintings and towering bookshelves.
We follow him in, Molly stepping behind us, her eyes darting between Charles’s severe posture and the cool united front Ellis and I present. The playful expectation on her face flickers, replaced by a sharp maternal awareness that the air in the room is thick with tension.
Charles takes a seat in a large wingback chair, setting his glass down on the table beside it with a heavy click. He doesn’t offer us a seat. He sits back, crossing his legs, looking at me like I’m a hostile witness on a cross-examination stand.
“I assume,” Charles begins, his tone dripping with ice, “that my daughter informed you of our discussion this afternoon, and I assume you’re here to offer input on how I intend to handle Dylan Boone.”
I don’t sit down. I stand squarely in the center of the room, my feet shoulder-width apart. My height and broad frame dominate the space between us, Ellis standing right beside me, her arm lightly brushing against mine, our fingers laced.
“I’m not here to offer input, Charles,” I say, my voice cool, calm, and unyielding.
“I’m here to tell you that you’re not taking legal action against Dylan Boone.
You aren’t filing a paternity suit, you aren’t dragging his name into a courtroom, and you’re not leaking a single word of this to the press. ”
Charles’s eyebrows shoot up, a dark, dangerous sneer pulling at his mouth. “Excuse me? You’re standing in my house telling me how I’m permitted to protect my daughter and my family.”
“He’s telling you,” Ellis cuts in, her tone precise.
“Because this isn’t your battle to fight, Dad.
Brody and I are building a life together.
We’re raising this child together. Dragging Dylan into a legal circus does nothing for my son.
Nothing for our family and nothing for my relationship with Brody.
It serves only one thing: your personal pride. ”
“Pride?” Charles says, slamming his hand onto the arm of his chair.
He leans forward, his face flushing crimson.
“That arrogant little bastard got you pregnant, hid behind his career, and insulted you on a public set. Our company’s set.
He treated a Renwick like an inconvenient mistake.
I’ve spent thirty years ensuring that anyone who touches this family or harms my children in any way pays a price they can’t afford.
You expect me to sit back and let him walk away without consequences because you want to allow Brody to stand in as some kind of decoy father to shoulder responsibility for another man’s child? ”
Molly gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes widening as the reality of the situation finally slams into her. “Charles. What are you saying about Dylan Boone?”
Neither Charles nor Ellis looks at her.
“I’m not a decoy,” I say softly, my voice cutting through Charles’s anger like a blade.
Charles narrows his eyes at me. “What?”