The Rolls-Royce Phantom was big enough to be a living room. The leather smelled like money, cold and crisp, a stark contrast to the faint scent of detergent and instant noodles that clung to Seraphina and the kids.
Fiona was asleep within five minutes, her head heavy in Seraphina's lap. Rowan stared out the window, mesmerized by the city lights, while Pax sat quietly, his tablet powered down, watching Donovan in the rearview mirror.
"Brooklyn," Seraphina murmured, giving the address.
Donovan inputted it into the nav system. His jaw tightened as the route calculated, leading them out of the glittering canyons of Manhattan and into the grittier streets across the river.
They drove in silence. The only sound was the soft hum of the engine. When the car finally stopped, they were in front of a crumbling brick walk-up. Graffiti tagged the door next to the bodega. A stray cat bolted under a parked car.
Donovan parked the car and got out. He opened the back door, looking at the sleeping Fiona. "I'll carry her."
Seraphina wanted to refuse, but the exhaustion was bone-deep. She nodded, shifting out of the way.
Donovan reached in and gently lifted the little girl. She weighed nothing. She curled into his chest instinctively, her small hand fisting the lapel of his tuxedo jacket. He froze for a second, the feeling of her in his arms sending a jolt of electricity straight down his spine. He smelled her hair-that cheap strawberry shampoo-and something inside his chest twisted painfully.
They climbed the stairs. The steps creaked under their feet. The hallway smelled like boiled cabbage and mildew. Seraphina fumbled with her keys, unlocking the door to their tiny apartment.
It was cramped. A fold-out couch, a small table covered in crayons, and a bookshelf made of cinderblocks and planks. But it was spotless.
Donovan laid Fiona down on the only real bed, pulling the thin, patched quilt over her. He stood up, his head nearly brushing the low ceiling. He looked around. On the fridge were drawings-stick figures of a mom and three kids. No dad. Ever.
Seraphina came up beside him, holding a chipped mug of water. "Thank you, Mr. Vance. For the ride."
She reached across the bed to tuck the blanket tighter around Fiona. As she stretched, the sleeve of her cardigan rode up again.
The dim, yellow light of the bedside lamp caught the skin on her inner wrist.
The star-shaped scar.
It wasn't a trick of the stage lights. It was real. Five points, slightly raised, a pale pink against her skin.
Donovan's vision tunneled. The air left his lungs.
Five years ago. The hotel room. The darkness. The woman underneath him, her breath hitching, her hands gripping his arms, trying to push him away. The flash of lightning illuminating that exact same star as she arched off the bed.
He snapped his head up, staring at Seraphina. His eyes were wide, the pupils blown.
Seraphina saw the look on his face-shock, horror, recognition-and took a step back, her heart seizing. "What? What is it?"
Donovan forced his jaw to unclench. He couldn't lose it here. Not yet. He needed to think. He needed to be sure.
"Nothing," he said, his voice rough, like gravel scraping glass. "Just... thinking about the move tomorrow."
He looked at the bed. At Fiona. At Pax, who was watching him from the doorway with knowing eyes. At Rowan. Three kids. Born roughly nine months after that night.
He took a step back, nearly tripping over a toy truck. "I have to go. Emergency at the office."
He didn't wait for her to respond. He turned and walked out of the apartment, his stride long and erratic. He took the stairs two at a time, bursting out into the cold Brooklyn night.
He slammed the car door shut and pulled out his phone, his hands shaking so badly he almost dropped it.
Alex answered on the first ring. "Sir?"
"Alex," Donovan growled, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and something terrifyingly close to joy. "I need you to run a check. Right now. The Fletcher triplets. I need their date of birth. Get me a year and a month. I don't care how you do it. And get me everything on Seraphina Fletcher. Everything."
