Chapter Twenty-Eight—Andrew
Paternity Test Results—Confidential
My thumb hovers, not touching it yet, because once I open it there's no more guessing.
No more what-ifs. Just truth. Seven days of waiting and catching Riley glancing at me and then looking away fast, seven days of wondering whose eyes our kid would have.
Mine. Not mine. Ours. All of it comes down to one tap.
I set the mug down.
“It's here,” I say. “I set up the account when Riley ordered the kit. Took it off her plate. The least I could do.”
Footsteps move through the penthouse. Ethan appears first. Liam follows, hair damp from the shower, already wearing that easy grin he puts on when he knows things are about to get real.
Riley walks in last. She hasn't looked directly at me since breakfast, arms wrapped tight around her middle like she's holding the baby—and herself—together.
We gather at the kitchen table—the same table where we did the swabs, the same chairs. Everything feels heavier now.
I open the email. The PDF loads.
I read it once. I read it again. The words don't change. Numbers, percentages, clinical language meant to remove emotion from the equation.
Probability of paternity: 99.99%.
Across the table Riley goes completely still, like she's already preparing for impact.
It looks like math. It feels like gravity.
I look up. Ethan and Liam watch me. Riley stares at her hands, fingers twisting together so hard her knuckles are white. For half a second I forget how to speak.
This is the moment that splits a life in two. Before this, possibility; after this, responsibility. There's no way to rewind, no way to soften what comes next.
“It's mine,” I say.
The words land heavier than I expected. I'm holding proof now, and it makes my chest tighten so hard it steals half a breath. It isn't panic. It's responsibility settling into bone.
A child. My child. My own family, finally, one that doesn't come with an expiration date.
The image hits before I can stop it: tiny fingers wrapped around mine, a laugh I haven't heard yet, a kid looking up at me like I'm supposed to know what comes next.
Like I'm supposed to be enough. Not a future possibility but a real person, forming somewhere inside her right now.
Someone who will look at me one day and expect answers I don't know how to give.
Someone who won't care about the mistakes I made before they existed.
Someone who will judge me by what I do next.
No more convincing myself that distance is protection. This time I stay, no matter how hard it gets.
Ethan leans back slowly. “Okay.”
Liam exhales, then gives that quick, crooked smile. “Well damn. Guess I owe Ethan twenty bucks.”
The joke lands light, but his green eyes are steady on Riley first, checking her before anyone else. That's Liam—trying to keep the air breathable even when the ceiling feels like it's dropping.
He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Doesn't change anything, sweetheart. Baby's ours. All of us. Paper or no paper. We already talked about it at brunch.”
Ethan exhales slowly through his nose. Not relief. Not disappointment. Calculation settling into acceptance. His gaze moves from me to Riley, steady and unreadable, but there's something softer underneath it now, resolved.
Riley still hasn't looked up. She presses her lips together, breathing slow through her nose like she's trying to hold everything inside. I can see the war happening behind her eyes—what this means, what it changes but doesn't fix.
Her hand drifts down to her stomach, fingers spreading protectively over the small curve that isn't visible yet but feels enormous now.
“Riley,” I say softly.
She lifts her head. Her eyes are wet, shining. She looks at me for a long moment, searching for the old Andrew who left and the new one sitting here now, like she's waiting for something. An apology. A promise. Proof. I don't know which one she needs most—maybe all of them.
“I don't know how to feel yet,” she says.
Her voice doesn't shake. She's holding herself together so tightly it looks painful—shoulders locked, breath shallow, fingers digging into her own palms like she needs the pressure just to stay upright.
That look on her face. I put that there. I left her standing in a kitchen once with no answers to work from, holding herself together the same way. Now I'm asking her to trust me with something bigger than either of us ever planned.
But she doesn't look away. A single tear slips free and tracks down her cheek.
I reach across the table and brush it away with my thumb.
Her skin is familiar in a way that hits harder than the test result ever could.
My hand stays there, thumb resting against her cheek, not moving, like if I move too fast she'll disappear again the way she did the morning after I left all those years ago.
But she stays. Right here, still looking at me.
Liam reaches across the table and taps two fingers lightly against the back of her hand. “We're in this together,” he says, softer now. “All four of us.”
Then his mouth tilts into that crooked grin again. “Besides,” he adds lightly, “you really think we'd let Andrew handle diapers alone? That's a public safety risk.”
Riley lets out a shaky laugh that sounds half sob. She wipes at her cheek with the heel of her hand, shaking her head once like she's trying to steady herself. But she doesn't look away from me. Not once.
Liam's grin widens just a fraction. “Kid's already got good taste. Chose the best woman any of us could ask for.”
Ethan shifts closer beside her. Liam stays leaned forward across the table. And me—still with my hand against her face. Three points around her. Not crowding. Holding.
The email is still open on my phone, the words glowing.
Our baby.
The kind of truth that doesn't get fixed with apologies. The Harrington dinner is in a few days, Connor is back in two weeks, and everything we've built sits under a truth he doesn't know yet. I don't know what breaks first when he walks through that door. But she's still looking at me.
And I'm staying right here.