13. Elisa
ELISA
The scent of burnt toast mixes with the faint, warm trace of my coconut milk body wash clinging to Donovan's skin. Pale morning light bleeds through the narrow kitchen window, reflecting off the damp pavement outside and casting a gray wash over the aftermath of last night's storm.
Donovan sits on the wooden stool at my kitchen counter. He wears the same white dress shirt from the hallway, dry now but deeply wrinkled, the top three buttons undone. His broad frame consumes the modest space, dwarfing the standard-sized furniture.
Derick hides behind my left leg.
My son clutches the fabric of my oversized gray sweatpants in his small fist, peering around my thigh with wide, cautious eyes. He stares at the massive stranger sitting at the breakfast counter.
Donovan’s green eyes—bruised, desperate, and identical to the boy’s—track every microscopic movement Derick makes. He wants to snatch the boy up. The need to hold his son radiates from his rigid posture, restrained only by the white-knuckle grip Donovan maintains on the quartz countertop.
"Do you like dinosaurs?" Donovan asks, consciously softening his cadence.
Derick shrinks back slightly, burying his face into the curve of my hip.
Donovan flinches, a barely perceptible tightening of his shoulders. He drops his gaze to the countertop, swallowing hard.
"Go to the living room, baby," I say quietly, brushing my hand over Derick's thick curls. "Your cartoons are on."
Derick releases my sweatpants and darts down the hallway, his small bare feet slapping against the hardwood. The television clicks on, the bright, obnoxious theme song of a cartoon filling the silence of the house.
"When?" Donovan stands immediately, the stool scraping against the tile. He moves closer, backing me against the stainless-steel refrigerator. "When do I tell him? When do I look my son in the eye and tell him who I am?"
I cross my arms tightly over my chest, pressing my palms flat against my own ribs to steady the frantic beating of my heart.
"You are a six-foot-four stranger who materialized in his hallway in the middle of a thunderstorm." I plant my bare feet firmly on the tile, refusing to yield the space. "You cannot just announce you are his father. You will terrify him. He needs time to adjust to your presence."
"Time." Donovan brackets my waist, his large hands pulling my hips against his thighs. The proximity instantly reignites the raw, aching soreness between my legs from last night. "I lost five years. I missed his first steps. I missed his first words. I am not waiting on the sidelines."
"You are not on the sidelines." I press my hands flat against his chest, directly over his erratic, thumping heartbeat. "But you will not overwhelm him. We integrate you slowly. Consistently."
He lowers his head, resting his brow heavily against my shoulder.
"I am moving you out of this neighborhood," he states flatly. "A secure penthouse. Twenty-four-hour detail. I am setting up his trust today. I want to give him everything."
"No," I reply instantly.
Donovan pulls back, confusion tightening his features.
"You do not purchase my son." I square my shoulders. "You do not suffocate us in Swanson wealth. I built this life. I own this house. You integrate into our world, Donovan. Give us time. Prove you can just be a man, not a billionaire."
He stares at me, the urgency in his posture fighting against my refusal. Then, his shoulders slump slightly. The impenetrable executive facade crumbles, leaving behind a man desperate to make up for stolen time.
"I will support you." He presses a firm kiss to my forehead. "I will be a part of his life. Every piece of it. Just tell me what to do."
"Go to work," I whisper, my throat tight. "Give us today."
He leaves ten minutes later, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him.
The mechanical whine of the industrial ventilation fans in the Brooklyn greenhouse fails to drown out the chaotic static in my brain.
Friday afternoon bleeds into evening.
My carbon-steel bypass shears snap shut, decapitating a perfectly healthy white rose. The stem hits the metal potting table with a sharp thwack.
Louisa steps into the narrow aisle, crossing her arms over her bright yellow sundress. She tracks the growing pile of massacred foliage on the aluminum surface.
"You are murdering the inventory."
"I slept with him."
The words tear out of my mouth, unfiltered. I slam the shears down onto the table.
Louisa does not gasp. She doesn't widen her eyes.
She leans against the metal staging rack, a slow, knowing smirk touching the corner of her mouth.
"Of course you did. The man looked wrecked when I let you both out of that floral cooler.
I assume the conversation regarding the five-year communication gap was productive? "
"Catherine orchestrated the entire thing." Bile rises in my throat just by speaking her name. "She faked a million-dollar wire transfer. She told him I took a payout."
Louisa’s smirk vanishes, her expression hardening into disgust. "That aristocratic, sociopathic bitch."
"He hacked the trust's ledgers." I grip the metal table, the sharp aluminum digging into my palms. "He knows everything. He met Derick. He wants to move us into his penthouse and buy a fleet of security details for him."
"And you are terrified."
"I built my own stability, Lou." I look down at the ruined rose. "I survived by controlling my environment. Donovan is a force of nature. If I let his world back in, if I let his mother anywhere near my child..."
"You set the boundaries," Louisa states, resting a comforting hand on my shoulder. "You hold all the cards in this dynamic, Elisa. He falls to his knees for you. Make him play by your rules."
Saturday morning.
The heavy, metallic chime of the doorbell echoes through the brownstone.
I pull the heavy wooden door open.
Donovan stands on the stoop. He isn't wearing a suit. No silk tie. No charcoal wool. He wears dark, fitted denim jeans and a long-sleeved henley.
He holds a massive, absurdly large rectangular cardboard box under his left arm.
"A three-thousand-piece architectural model of the Empire State Building," I state, staring blankly at the box. "He is four, Donovan. He still occasionally eats crayons."
"It stimulates spatial reasoning." He steps over the threshold, easily ducking beneath the doorframe. "It’s a collaborative project."
Before he steps inside, I plant my hand flat against the center of his chest.
"Ground rules," I state firmly. "No expensive, unearned gifts after this. No paparazzi. And your mother does not come within a fifty-mile radius of my child."
The mention of Catherine drains the warmth from his expression.
"My mother is done," he says evenly. "My legal team is already quietly dismantling her access to the primary trust. It might take a while to fully untangle the assets, but she will never be allowed near you or him again. I will make sure of it."
He shifts the heavy cardboard box to his other arm, exhaling a slow, unsteady breath. He isn't preparing for a boardroom negotiation; he is facing the terrifying, uncharted territory of my living room floor.
Two hours later, Donovan is sitting cross-legged on my rug.
Derick sits close to his side, captivated. The initial shyness faded the second Donovan dumped the thousands of tiny plastic bricks onto the floor.
I lean against the doorframe of the kitchen, clutching a mug of black coffee.
Donovan organizes the plastic pieces by size and color gradient, handing small bricks to Derick with undivided attention.
"We need a wider base here," Donovan says softly. He guides Derick's small hand, clicking a gray piece into place. "Precision is everything."
Derick looks up, the striking green eyes meeting the exact pair looking back at him. "Like a real building?"
" like a real building." Donovan smiles. It is a small, tender expression that transforms his usually guarded face.
My throat tightens. A sharp ache swells in my chest. The affection I buried under five years of survival sparks into a warm, terrifying fire. I grip the ceramic handle of my mug, helpless to stop the freefall. I am falling for him all over again.
The loud clack of the front deadbolt unlocking disrupts the quiet.
Heavy work boots thud into the foyer.
Hector stops dead in the archway of the living room. He wears a faded mechanic's jacket, a heavy cardboard box of floral supplies balanced on his hip. His dark eyes scan the chaotic spread of Legos, landing directly on Donovan.
"What the hell is this?" Hector asks, his posture instantly stiffening.
Donovan goes still. He does not stand, but his shoulders tense, instantly on guard.
I set my coffee mug on the nearest end table with a sharp clink. I grab Hector by the sleeve of his jacket, hauling his massive frame backward into the kitchen, out of Derick's earshot.
"I know what you’re going to say. He is his father," I whisper fiercely, pushing Hector against the stainless-steel refrigerator. "He knows the truth. Catherine lied to him."
"I don't care if she forged the damn Magna Carta." Hector leans down, speaking in a harsh whisper. "He is a Swanson. They take what they want. He is playing house today, Elisa. Tomorrow he brings the corporate lawyers."
A heavy footstep sounds against the kitchen tile.
Donovan steps into the kitchen doorway. His expression settles into harsh, unyielding lines.
"I am not my mother, Hector," Donovan says, his tone leaving no room for debate. "I am not playing a game. I am not going anywhere."
Hector squares his shoulders, ready to argue, but the shrill ring of a cell phone interrupts.
My phone vibrates aggressively against the quartz countertop.
The bright digital screen lights up. The caller ID flashes a private Manhattan number.
I pick up the device, swiping the green icon, bringing the phone to my ear.
"Ms. Fleming."
The aristocratic, icy cadence drips directly into my ear, venomous and perfectly polished. A snake uncoiling on the other end of the line.
Catherine Swanson.
"Your latest revisions for the gala are unacceptable," the matriarch states, the lie wrapped perfectly in silk. "I am conducting a mandatory site audit of your Brooklyn facility. First thing Monday morning. Ensure your team is prepared for a complete audit."