15. Evan
CHAPTER 15
Evan
A s I pulled up to the sprawling estate of my parents' house in Chicago, my heart knocked around my chest like a rookie firefighter facing his first blaze. The place hadn’t changed one bit—same intimidating iron gates, same meticulously trimmed hedges that would probably snip themselves out of sheer respect for my father's strict standards.
"Welcome back, Mr. Mercer," said James, the butler who’d been with us since I was knee-high to a fire hydrant. “I didn’t have your visit on the schedule today.” He always said schedule with a soft “sh” sound that made me smile.
"Thanks, James." My voice sounded steadier than I felt. “It was a spur-of-the-moment visit,” I said. The door swung open, and the smell hit me—the rich blend of polished wood and leather that was as much a part of this house as the stone it was built from. Memories flooded back of Mason and me, tearing through these halls, our laughter echoing off the high ceilings. A simpler time, before life got complicated by things like grief and threats to be disowned by my father. “I assume he’s in his office?”
"I’ll let him know you’re here," James said.
“That’s okay. I’ll announce myself.” I wanted to catch my father off guard. It was the only way to get a read on him. We reached the heavy oak door, and James gave me a nod before turning back.
"Good luck," he whispered, leaving me standing there, feeling like I was about to walk into the lion's den armed with nothing but a water pistol.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open. Dad sat behind his massive mahogany desk that looked like it could double as a Viking ship if you flipped it over. He glanced up, barely a hint of surprise flickering across his features. He acknowledged me with a nod so cool it could frost glass.
"Evan."
"Father." I stepped inside, the plush carpet swallowing the sound of my footsteps. It was just like him to create an environment where even your own presence felt muted.
I squared my shoulders, trying to shake off the anxiety. This was it, no backing down now. "We need to talk," I said, my voice steady despite the storm brewing in my gut.
He didn’t respond, just shuffled a stack of papers with the detachment of a man sorting through junk mail. But I could see the lines of tension at the corners of his eyes. He knew what was coming. He always knew.
"How could you?" I blurted out, not bothering with the niceties of small talk that had never really bridged the gap between us. My words hung in the air.
He didn’t flinch, didn't give me the satisfaction of seeing him react. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, the very image of self-assurance so polished it could reflect his own smugness. "I've no idea what you're talking about," he said, but the flicker of awareness in his eyes told me everything I needed to know.
"Samantha Brown." My voice was more controlled than I felt. The old leather of the armchair creaked under his shifting weight, a familiar soundtrack to countless one-sided conversations.
“Who?”
A rage unlike any I had felt before roared to life in my chest. His denial wasn’t just a lie—it was an insult.
“You know who,” I ground out, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “Don’t play games with me.”
Dad exhaled, long and slow, as if he were tolerating an unruly employee rather than his own son. “Evan, if this is about some woman from your past—”
“She’s not some woman .” My voice came sharp and fast, slicing through his feigned indifference. “She’s the mother of my child.”
For the first time, something flickered across his face—shock, maybe. Or maybe it was calculation, adjusting the pieces of whatever game he was playing.
But he recovered quickly. “And what, exactly, do you think I had to do with her?”
I took a step closer, bracing my hands against the edge of his desk. “You tell me,” I challenged. “I hired Jack to find her fourteen years ago. He came up with nothing. Said she disappeared. But she didn’t. She was in Indiana, Dad. Not some remote island. Not off the grid. You expect me to believe our seasoned investigator just… failed?”
Dad leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “Careful, Evan. Accusations like that—”
“Cut the act.” My pulse thundered in my ears. “Did you interfere?”
Silence.
It stretched between us, thick with years of power plays I’d been too blind to see before.
And then, the smallest twitch of his lips. Not a smile—more like the ghost of satisfaction.
“You were never meant for that life,” he said smoothly. “She wasn’t the kind of woman you needed. You’re a Mercer, for crying out loud. I couldn’t have you gallivanting around with some two-bit trailer trash–”
“Enough!” I roared. I had never been so tempted to strike my father as I was at that moment. But to hear him talk about Samantha that way? I couldn’t.
“Did you know? Did you know about Sophia?”
Before he could answer, the door opened and Mom stepped in, her eyes wide with surprise. "Evan, darling, what's going on?" she asked, glancing between the two of us, her concern etched in the gentle lines around her eyes.
"Nothing to worry about, Elaine." Dad dismissed her with a wave of his hand as if swatting away a pesky fly. She hovered by the bookshelves, unwilling to push him further, but not ready to leave the room. A quiet, obedient little mouse. Like she’d always been.
"Actually, Mom, there's plenty to worry about." I turned back to face him. "Daddy dearest here still seems to think he can control every aspect of my life."
"Control?" He laughed lightly, the sound hollow in the expanse of the office. "I was trying to save you from a life filled with regret, son."
My jaw tightened as I struggled to keep my emotions in check. The word 'regret' sat heavy in the air, like a challenge. A life of regret? As if he had any idea about the things that haunted me, keeping me up at night, or driving me to run into burning buildings to save strangers because I couldn't save—
"Save me?" I managed to choke out. "By dictating my choices? By hiding the truth?"
"Choices lead to consequences," he said, his voice dipped in the cool, detached tone of a CEO rather than a father. "I was merely trying to guide you towards the right ones."
"Guide?" I repeated incredulously. “You could have cost me the chance to be a father to that little girl.”
My mother gave a startled gasp.
"Enough, Evan," my father warned, his indifference slipping just enough to reveal the iron will beneath.
I studied him for a moment—the man who taught me to tie a tie, to ride a bike, and then later, how to hide any vulnerability behind a veneer of confidence. But I wasn’t that little boy anymore, running through these halls, seeking his approval. I was a man with calloused hands and a heart that'd been through the wringer. And I'd stopped letting him steer my course fourteen years ago when Mason died.
"Evan, you're too close to this situation. You can't see—"
"No, Dad," I interrupted, my tone leaving no room for debate. "I see perfectly clearly. You've always had this...this script for how my life should go. But I stopped following it a long time ago. Whatever foolish hopes you had for me to leave the fire department behind and take up the family business? That’s never happening." The words felt like boulders rolling off my tongue, heavy but freeing.
He let out a derisive chuckle, the sound echoing off the high ceilings adorned with ornate crown molding—the gilded cage of my upbringing. "It’s time to move past this little teenage rebellion. Grow up, Evan."
"Rebellion?" I repeated, a mirthless laugh escaping me. "I'm no teenager, Dad. I'm a grown man, apparently a father myself. This isn't about rebelling; it's about living my life, making my choices. And I won't apologize for that."
"Choices have consequences," he said again, eyes narrowing slightly. "And I've always been here to mitigate them for you."
"You’ve been mitigating them," I echoed, feeling the absurdity of the word in this context. "We're talking about my daughter . I already know the weight of my decisions. I carry them every day, on every call. And now, I carry them in every moment I spend with Samantha and Sophia. My choices are mine to bear, not yours to manage."
“You’re my son, and I will not let you stain the Mercer name!”
A scornful laugh fell from my lips. “We’re. Done," I said, feeling each word vibrate through the air, a solemn drumbeat to mark the end of an era. “As far as I am concerned, I am no longer your son. You stay away from me and my family.”
I turned on my heel and marched out of the office, only slightly aware that my mother followed me.
“Evan. Evan, sweetheart,” she pleaded as she chased me down the hallway.
My heart was racing, my muscles stiff from clenching my jaw and fists. When we reached the foyer, I turned and my mother almost ran into me.
“Did you know?” I stared at her, studying every muted emotion on her overly-botoxed face.
Her gaze softened slightly, and she moved closer, placing her hand on my arm—a touch that used to comfort me as a boy. "I didn’t know, I swear,” she said gently. "Whatever your father has done, I had no part in it. And... I would very much like to meet your Sophia. My… granddaughter? Please believe me,” she begged.
The sincerity in her voice tugged at something deep within me, and I found myself recalling countless childhood moments when she'd been the buffer between Dad's stern discipline and my own stubborn streak.
"Mom, I... I believe you." The words came out more tenderly than I expected. "And Sophia—she's amazing. You'd love her. She’s smart and sassy and has this ability to just... light up a room, even though she's had her share of challenges."
My mother's face brightened at the description. "She sounds like a remarkable young lady."
"Yeah, she is." I felt a smile breaking through despite the emotional whirlwind. "I can't promise anything right now, but I'll think about it."
"Thank you, Evan," she said, her voice carrying years of warmth and a hint of hope that hadn't been there a moment ago.
And with that, I turned my back on the imposing silhouette of the Mercer family home, feeling the last chains of expectation fall away. With a final glance at the Chicago skyline, I started the engine of my well-worn truck. It stood out like a sore thumb amidst the luxury cars of the family driveway. It felt good to leave in something that was unmistakably mine, a symbol of the hard-earned life I'd built. The road stretched out before me, leading back to Minden, back to Sophia. And Samantha.
I’d spent weeks—months, really—fighting against the resentment, the betrayal of what Sam had kept from me. And yet, somewhere between late-night tutoring sessions with Sophia, stolen glances across the library, and the cautious, guarded conversations we’d had, something had shifted.
I didn’t just see her as the girl who disappeared. Or the woman who kept my daughter from me.
I saw the mother who had raised Sophia into the brilliant, thoughtful kid she was. The woman who had built a life for them from nothing. Who had protected our daughter, even when she had no one protecting her.
Samantha wasn’t my enemy. And that realization felt more dangerous than anything else.
Because if I let go of my anger, if I let myself truly see her for who she was now, then I’d have to admit the truth.
That I still wanted her. Not just because of Sophia. Not just because of the history we shared.
But because she was Samantha. And for reasons I couldn’t fully explain, I had never really stopped wanting her.
The thought made my grip tighten on the wheel.
I needed to be here for Sophia. That was it.
And if there was one thing I knew how to do, it was control myself.
I had spent years perfecting the art of shutting things down before they had the chance to hurt me.
So whatever this was—whatever pull I still felt toward Samantha—I would bury it.
The past had shaped my perspective, drilling into me the belief that nothing good came from wanting something I was never meant to have.
And that was the thought I couldn’t shake.
I told myself it didn’t matter, that whatever existed between us all those years ago was long gone. That the only thing tethering us together now was Sophia.
But sometimes, when I caught her watching me—when her gaze lingered just a little too long before she looked away—I wondered.
When our hands brushed as we passed each other in her too-small kitchen, when her breath hitched the slightest bit before she turned to busy herself with something else, I wondered.
And when she smiled at Sophia with all the warmth and love in the world, only to glance at me with something unreadable in her eyes, I wondered.
Did she feel it too?
That pull. That connection neither of us had asked for but couldn’t seem to sever completely.
I should have let it go.
But even as I told myself to push it aside, to bury it like I’d buried everything else, I knew one thing for certain.
If Samantha felt even a fraction of what I did, ignoring it would be impossible.
And maybe I wasn’t the only one fighting a battle I had no hope of winning.