Chapter 21 #2
She obeyed but kept laughing, showing the little gap between her front teeth. When Olivia looked down, she quickly flicked broccoli off her plate under the table.
"Juliet." Olivia's voice came from across the table.
"I didn't!"
"I saw you."
Juliet shrank back, stuck out her tongue, picked up the broccoli from under the table, shoved it in her mouth, chewed twice, face scrunching up.
Leo watched and couldn't help laughing. Juliet laughed too, nearly spitting out the broccoli.
The two kids dissolved into giggles.
Olivia watched them and sighed, but her eyes and brows were full of warmth.
I sat there, watching them—Juliet and Leo laughing, Olivia watching them laugh. Sunlight streamed through the window, falling on the table, on the pasta, on her lashes.
This moment felt too much like family.
When that thought landed, I almost wished time could stop right here.
After lunch, Leo pushed his plate to the center of the table, placed his fork neatly beside it, looked up at Olivia.
"Mommy, I'm done."
"Okay, go play."
He slid off his chair. Juliet pulled Leo upstairs to see the toys in his room, their footsteps thumping up the stairs and disappearing.
I stood, picked up my bowl, followed Olivia into the kitchen.
"I'll do it," I said.
"No need," she said, already turning on the faucet.
I set the bowl by the sink, stood there.
She turned sideways, back to me, washing dishes, shoulders tight, movements faster than usual. The rushing water drowned out any possible conversation in this space.
"Olivia."
"After the dishes, you leave," she said, voice pressed flat. "Juliet has class tomorrow."
I stared at her back for a second, didn't push.
Juliet and Leo said reluctant goodbyes on the steps, dragging it out, promising to see each other next week. I stood beside Olivia, less than an arm's length between us.
"Leo," I said, voice low enough for only her to hear. "How old is he?"
She didn't answer immediately.
The pause lasted only two seconds, but I noticed.
"Five," she said.
"When's his birthday?"
"That's none of your business," she said.
This time, no pause.
Fast enough that I couldn't find anything in it, fast like an answer she'd prepared long ago.
I didn't press. Juliet was already pulling my hand. "Daddy, let's go!"
I looked down at Olivia one last time.
She stood in the doorway, hand on the frame, Leo leaning against her leg, looking up and waving at Juliet. Sunset light hit from the side, stretching their shadows long—one tall, one short—falling on the tiles below the steps.
I turned, led a reluctant Juliet away.
I called Carlo when Juliet was already asleep in the back seat.
"Run someone," I said. "Leo Adrian. Five years old. Pull his birth records, guardian info, everything on Olivia Adrian's past five years in France—any marriages, any relationships with other men."
"Got it," Carlo said. "When do you need it?"
"Tonight."
I hung up.
Juliet's breathing in the back was steady. She was sleeping, cheek pressed against the side of her car seat, stuffed bunny clutched in her arms.
I kept my hand on the steering wheel, didn't start the car.
Streetlights came on, one by one, illuminating the street clearly. Olivia's apartment building still had lights on, a warm glow from a second-floor window, a shadow passing briefly, then gone.
I stared at that window for a long time.
The report came two hours later.
I was in my study, spread the file open, read from the top.
Olivia Adrian left New York, ended up in southern France, settled in a small town called Provence, opened a flower shop. No marriage records on file.
No marriage.
Ex-husband.
That word spun through my head, then landed on this line—no marriage records on file—like two things colliding, making a sound I couldn't quite hear.
She'd lied.
I flipped to the next page.
Leo Adrian, five years old, born in southern France. Father's name: blank.
Blank.
I set the file on the desk, leaned back in my chair.
Outside the window was the city at night, lights connecting into sheets, looking from up here like scattered sparks.
I grew up in this city, took over the family business here, learned how to stay composed here, learned to press every emotion I shouldn't have into a sealed place and throw away the key.
I thought I'd pressed Olivia in there too.
I thought I hated her.
Hated that she'd used perfume to deceive me, hated that she appeared at the worst possible time, hated that she made me waver on a night I shouldn't have, hated the way she left—no argument, no tears, no sound at all, just disappeared, like she'd never been there.
I told myself that hate was real. Spent five years convincing myself it was real.
But today at that dining table, watching her serve Juliet food, watching her scold Leo for being picky, watching her brush away that loose strand of hair with the back of her hand—that feeling wasn't hate.
Never was.
I closed the file, set it in the corner of the desk.
The study was quiet. Juliet was asleep, the whole house settled into silence. In that silence, for the first time, I didn't fill the gap with any excuse. Just sat there, let that thought float up from where I'd pressed it down for five years.
I never really hated her.
All that anger, all that coldness, every blade I used against her—the edge was never aimed at Olivia. It was aimed at the rules, at the board I'd been strapped to since birth, at realizing I couldn't control anything, not even the most basic choice, and the helplessness that came with it.
I hated those things, had nowhere to direct it, so I turned it on her.
She was closest, she was softest, she was the most unguarded.
So she took the heaviest blow.
I put my hand on the desk, looked at my reflection in the study window for a long time, until that reflection became strange, like someone I recognized but couldn't name.
Leo Adrian.
Father's name: blank.
I closed my eyes.
Fuck.