Emery Houston POV:
My fingers, tightly gripped around the strap of my purse, trembled. I felt my carefully constructed composure begin to crack. The air thickened around us, heavy with unspoken accusations.
"What are you implying, Carter?" I asked, my voice dangerously calm. I looked at him, truly looked at him. His eyes, once again, held that unnerving softness, the same gentle gaze he' d held that night under the moonlight, when he' d promised to take care of me. It was a familiar trick, a facade I now saw through.
He took a slow, deliberate breath, then took a step closer, crowding my personal space. The scent of his familiar cologne, sharp and clean, filled my nostrils, a ghost from another lifetime.
"I have a right to know," he stated, his voice low and firm. "About my son."
My mind froze. His son? The sheer absurdity of it made my head spin. I stared at him, unable to process the words. My son. His son. The two concepts collided in my brain, creating a jarring, ugly dissonance.
"Are you… are you implying that Leo is yours?" I managed to stammer out, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. The idea was so outlandish, so utterly impossible, it nearly made me laugh.
He looked at me, his gaze unwavering. "I'm not implying it, Emery. I' m stating it. He is my son." His voice was calm, utterly convinced.
I watched him, searching for any hint of a joke, any flicker of irony. There was none. He was serious. Deadly serious. A hysterical laugh bubbled up from deep within me, escaping my lips despite my efforts to suppress it. It was a dry, humorless sound.
"How? How could he possibly be yours, Carter?" I asked, the words laced with a bitter irony. "Tell me. Enlighten me."
I remembered our brief, chaste encounters. His careful distance, his almost clinical politeness. He had been so focused on his research, too preoccupied with his work to even consider the messy business of starting a family. And everything Carter did, he planned down to the last detail. No unplanned pregnancies. No surprises. That was his mantra.
The gentle warmth in his eyes slowly faded, replaced by a cold, hard glint. He stared at me, his jaw clenched. "Accidents happen, Emery," he said, his voice clipped. "Even to the most meticulous."
I didn't want to argue. I was tired, bone-weary of his presence, his accusations, his twisted reality. "He's not yours, Carter," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "He just isn't."
I raised my arm, signaling for a passing taxi. But before I could take a step, his hand shot out, clamping around my wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong, almost painful.
"Don't lie to me, Emery," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "He is my son. I know it."
A surge of pure, unadulterated fury coursed through me. I yanked my arm back, twisting my wrist, breaking free from his grasp. "Let go of me!" I spat, my eyes blazing.
He stumbled back a step, looking genuinely taken aback. His eyes, wide with surprise, seemed to ask: You're angry? You? The meek, quiet Emery? It was as if he' d forgotten I possessed any emotions beyond polite compliance.
I took two steps back, putting distance between us, my gaze wary, almost hostile. He always expected me to be the placid one, the one who never raised her voice, never showed her true feelings.
His eyes, usually so composed, now had a frantic, bloodshot quality. His voice, when it came, was a raw, choked whisper. "You… you never get angry, Emery. You just… you just take it. Why are you angry now? Because you think I' m wrong? Because you think I won't take responsibility?"
A cold realization hit me. He had no idea. He knew nothing of the hell I' d been dragged through, the depths of despair I' d clawed my way out of. His family, his pristine, powerful family, had ensured that. They had kept him insulated, unaware.
The taxi pulled up, its yellow lights a welcome beacon. I ripped open the door, practically falling inside.
"Emery!" His voice, raw and desperate, followed me. "Emery, why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you come to me?"
I slammed the door shut, cutting off his words, cutting off the past. The taxi sped away, leaving him standing there, a solitary, bewildered figure. In the rearview mirror, I saw him. His hand, the one that had held my wrist, slowly clenched into a fist. He looked lost, abandoned. It was a fleeting thought, quickly dismissed. He deserved every bit of it.
