16. Donovan
DONOVAN
The flat, smooth stone skips three times across the gray, churning surface of the Atlantic before sinking beneath the surf.
"Again!"
Derick jumps, his small sneakers kicking up the damp, packed sand of the private Hamptons beach.
The coastal wind whips his thick, dark curls around his face.
The oversized, navy-blue cable-knit sweater he wears swallows his small frame, but the brilliant green of his eyes—my eyes—shines with an unrestrained joy that makes my chest tighten.
I crouch on the sand, the thick canvas of my dark chinos pressing into the wet grit.
It has been weeks. A few weeks since I stood in a dark Brooklyn foyer and watched the lie I lived under shatter.
Almost a month of existing in two opposed spheres.
By day, I am the CEO of Swanson Enterprises, managing a multi-billion-dollar portfolio and executing the logistics for the Mother's Day Gala.
By night, I am a father. Quietly slipping through the private garage entrances of her Brooklyn brownstone, keeping my visits off the official security logs, stealing every available hour to sit on a vintage Persian rug and assemble plastic bricks.
To have my family by my side, I engineered a massive zoning injunction on a historical Swanson property in the Mayfair district of London to keep my mother busy.
I instructed my UK legal division to stonewall the local preservation committee until they specifically demanded a liaison with the Swanson family.
Catherine boarded a Gulfstream twenty-four hours later.
She has been in Europe for weeks, consumed by the manufactured legal battle, blind to the life I am building right behind her back.
But the Gala preparation is a punishing machine, and it is grinding Elisa down.
Derick and I conspired. A coordinated strike. We ambushed her at the Brooklyn greenhouse at dawn this morning, packed a single overnight bag, and drove the Cullinan two hours east to the isolation of this private, gated beachfront estate.
"Your turn." I press a flat piece of slate into Derick’s small, cold palm. "Index finger on the edge. Snap the wrist. Do not throw from the shoulder."
Derick pinches the stone, his small brow furrowing in deep concentration. He mimics the stance perfectly, pulling his arm back and snapping his wrist forward.
The stone hits the water at a steep angle and immediately sinks with a hollow plop.
His shoulders slump. The frustration is immediate, a dark cloud shadowing his face.
I reach out, my large hand enveloping his small shoulder. The physical contact, the undeniable reality of my blood running in his veins, settles something restless and broken inside of me.
"The ocean doesn't always cooperate on the first try, Derick." I turn him slightly, adjusting the angle of his feet. I hand him another stone. "You look at how it hits. You adjust your stance. Try again."
He squares his shoulders, mirroring the exact posture I take in a boardroom. He throws.
The stone hits the crest of a wave, bounces once, twice, and disappears.
"Two!" Derick shouts, throwing his arms in the air.
"Two." A low chuckle rumbles in my chest. The tension that permanently lives between my shoulders eases , replaced by a profound warmth that defies the crisp April wind off the water.
I stand, brushing the sand from my hands. I look up the sloping, manicured dunes toward the sprawling cedar-shingle estate.
Elisa sits on the expansive wraparound porch.
She wears loose, ivory canvas trousers and a thick, oversized cream sweater that slips off one shoulder. Her thick hair is free, blowing wild in the salt wind. She holds a mug of hot coffee, her dark eyes tracking our every movement on the sand.
"Go to your mom," I say softly, gesturing up the dune. "Tell her you conquered the Atlantic."
Derick sprints up the wooden boardwalk, his small legs pumping furiously.
I follow at a slower, measured pace, ascending the wooden stairs to the porch just as Derick launches himself into Elisa’s lap.
"Two times, Mommy! I made it skip two times!"
"A certified maritime engineer." Elisa presses a kiss into his messy curls, her rich laugh wrapping around the chilled April air. "Go inside and ask Hayes to make you a hot chocolate. Your hands are freezing."
Derick scrambles off her lap and disappears through the heavy glass sliding doors into the warmth of the house.
I take the empty mug from her hands, setting it on the teak side table.
I sit heavily on the cushioned lounge chair beside her. I slide closer, my thigh pressing gently against hers.
She stares out at the crashing gray waves. Her posture is stiff. The competence she wields in the city is gone, leaving a quiet, terrifying vulnerability in its place.
I reach over, my large hand enveloping hers. I thread my long fingers through hers, anchoring our hands against my thigh.
"You don't have to be on guard here," I murmur, my gaze tracing the dark exhaustion still shadowing the skin beneath her eyes.
She sighs, leaning her head against the high back of the chair. "It has been weeks, Donovan. Weeks of perfect, isolated moments. And every time the sun comes up, I wait for the sky to fall."
"Catherine is in London. Her board proxy is bleeding out. She has no leverage."
"She is a Swanson. She is your mother." Elisa turns her head, her dark eyes wide and hauntingly honest. "I trust you.
I trust the man sitting on this porch with me.
But I am terrified of the name attached to you.
The press. The legacy. The moment the world finds out about Derick, they will put a microscope on him.
They will tear apart my business, my background, my parents.
They will look for every reason why a florist from Brooklyn is unworthy of the Swanson heir. "
The protective instinct tightens my chest so violently it hurts.
"I will step down."
The words drop onto the wooden deck, absolute and irreversible.
Elisa freezes. "What?"
"I will step down as Chief Executive Officer.
" I hold her gaze, ensuring she reads the absolute certainty in mine.
"I will liquidate my voting shares and transfer them into a blind trust for Derick.
I will remove my name from the operational hierarchy of the company.
I will start an independent commercial real estate firm.
If my family threatens you, I will sever my ties . "
"You spent your whole life building that portfolio," she whispers, her fingers tightening around mine.
"I spent thirty years surviving a miserable existence." I lift her hand, pressing my mouth against her knuckles. "You are my life. You and that boy. I do not require a Manhattan skyscraper to prove my worth. I only require you under my roof."
A single tear slips past her eyelashes, sliding down the curve of her cheek. She leans across the space, burying her face into the crook of my neck. I wrap both arms around her, holding her tightly against my chest, shielding her from the biting coastal wind.
10:00 PM.
The rhythmic crash of the ocean surf echoes through the open glass doors of the master bedroom suite.
The beach house is quiet. Derick succumbed to the exhaustion of the salt air an hour ago, his small body melting into the mattress of the guest room after three recitations of the dinosaur encyclopedia.
I stand on the dark, second-floor balcony overlooking the private beach. The wind has died down, leaving a crisp spring chill in the air.
Elisa stands with her spine pressed firmly into my chest. She wears my heavy cashmere overcoat draped over her shoulders, the hem sweeping the wooden deck. My arms are wrapped around her waist, my chin resting on the crown of her head.
The profound domesticity of the moment is addictive.
"He wants to show you his greenhouse tomorrow," Elisa murmurs softly, her hands resting over my forearms. "He planted a tray of basil seeds. He checks the soil moisture every morning."
"I will clear the afternoon." I press a kiss into her hair. "Hayes can drive us back after lunch."
"You have a board meeting at two."
"The board can wait."
She laughs quietly, a soft sound that settles the final, lingering tension in my chest.
A sharp, violent buzz vibrates against my outer thigh.
The matte-black phone in my pocket disrupts the silence. A high-priority security alert.
I do not loosen my grip on Elisa. I shift my weight slightly, sliding my right hand into my pocket to retrieve the device.
I keep the screen angled away from her line of sight, shielding the bright glare from ruining the dark intimacy of the balcony.
Sender: Unknown Number.
No text. Just a single image file.
My pulse slows to a heavy, methodical thud.
I tap the screen. The image loads in high resolution.
It is a photograph. Taken in broad daylight.
The framing captures the sprawling cedar-shingle beach house, the wooden boardwalk, and the gray, churning surf of the Atlantic Ocean.
In the frame, captured with crystal-clear precision through a long-range telephoto lens, is my family.
It is an image of me, crouched in the damp sand, my hand resting on Derick's small shoulder as he prepares to throw a stone. The angle exposes the identical sharp cut of our jawlines.
The metadata timestamp is burned into the bottom corner of the image.
Today. 2:14 PM.
A violent, protective fury erupts in my chest, instantly shattering the peaceful night.
Someone was on the dunes. Someone bypassed the gate.
Before I can process the security breach, a second message pushes through the encrypted network.
Sender: Hayes (Head of Private Security)
Message: Sir. Catherine Swanson’s Gulfstream touched down at Teterboro Airport an hour ago. She is back in New York.
I lock the screen immediately, shoving the phone deep into the pocket of my chinos.
The muscles in my chest and arms must have gone rigid, because Elisa shifts against me. She turns in my embrace as she tilts her head up to look at me in the dark.
"What is it?" she whispers. Her dark eyes search my face as she looks up at me with complete, open trust—a quiet reliance she has fought fiercely to guard. "A problem?"
I force the tight, aching muscles in my jaw to relax.
I lift my hand, brushing a stray, wind-blown curl away from her cheek. I press a soft, lingering kiss to her temple, wrapping my arms tighter around her waist to anchor her against me.
"It’s nothing," I murmur, keeping my tone perfectly steady to soothe her. "Just a minor logistics issue at the warehouse. I’ll handle it later."
"Are you sure?" she asks, resting her cheek against my chest, right over my hammering heart. "You feel tense."
"I'm sure. Don’t worry, Elisa."
She sighs softly, trusting the lie, her body relaxing into mine. I hold her against the April wind, staring out into the pitch-black void of the Atlantic Ocean over the top of her head.
Catherine is back. And someone out there is stalking my family.
Let them try. I will do everything to protect Elisa and my son.