The key sliding into the lock of her apartment door was the best sound in the world. Everleigh stepped inside, the exhaustion of the evening crashing down on her the moment the door clicked shut behind her.
She leaned against it, kicking off the heels that had carried her through the battlefield of the gala. The elegant armor she wore felt heavy and foreign now. All she wanted was to wash the night away.
"Miss Conway, you're home."
A kind-faced woman with graying hair, Mrs. Petrova, met her in the small foyer, taking her coat. "Leo just fell asleep. He was asking for you."
A warmth spread through Everleigh's chest, chasing away the chill from the terrace. "Thank you, Petrova. You can go home. I'll see you in the morning."
After the nanny left, Everleigh padded silently down the hallway to the smallest bedroom. The door was cracked open, spilling a sliver of soft light from a moon-shaped nightlight.
She pushed it open gently.
There, in a small bed, a little boy with a halo of blond hair was sleeping soundly. He was clutching a well-loved stuffed rabbit, its ears worn from countless hugs.
Leo.
Her son. Her world.
She knelt by his bed, her heart aching with a love so fierce it almost hurt to breathe. She gently brushed a curl from his forehead, her touch feather-light. He stirred, a soft sigh escaping his lips, but didn't wake. She leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his warm skin.
He was her reason. The reason she had run, the reason she had to fight, the reason she could never, ever go back.
Leaving his room, she found her younger sister, Iris, curled up on the living room sofa, a guitar resting across her lap and a notebook open beside her. Iris looked up, her bright, defiant eyes instantly searching Everleigh's face.
"So? Did you see the bastard?"
Iris never minced words.
Everleigh sank into the armchair opposite the couch, the plush fabric a welcome comfort. She ran a hand over her face, feeling the strain of the forced smiles and tense conversations.
"He was there."
She recounted the evening in a flat, tired voice. The interception. The terrace. The divorce papers dropped on the cold stone.
Iris shot up from the sofa, her guitar making a soft thud as she set it aside. She began pacing the small living room, her restless energy filling the space.
"He threatened you? Of course, he did! That's all he knows how to do. That arrogant prick. We should just leave, Ev. Let's get out of New York. We can go back to California."
Everleigh watched her sister's frantic movements, a small, weary smile touching her lips.
"No," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "No more running. My company is here. Leo's life is here. This is our home now."
Her gaze was steady, her resolve hardening with every word. "I'm not afraid of him anymore."
Iris stopped pacing and came to sit on the arm of her chair, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "You're right. We're not afraid of him."
Miles away, in a steel and glass tower overlooking the city, the atmosphere was anything but comforting.
The lights of the Mckinney Holdings CEO office burned brightly against the dark sky. Brice stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his tie ripped loose from his collar hours ago. He hadn't slept.
Jamey Beasley stood before the massive mahogany desk, his expression grim. He placed a slim file folder on the polished surface.
"Sir. This is what we have so far."
Brice turned from the window. He picked up the folder, his movements sharp and impatient. He flipped it open.
The first page was a summary of a small startup. "Elysian Creative." A branding and digital marketing agency. Founder and CEO: Everleigh Conway.
A flicker of something unreadable—surprise? respect?—passed through his eyes. She had built this from nothing. In two years, she had built a real company.
He turned the page.
And then he stopped.
His entire body went still. The air in the room seemed to crackle with sudden tension.
It was a photograph. A candid shot, taken from a distance. Everleigh, in a park, her face alight with a genuine, carefree smile he hadn't seen in years. She was pushing a swing.
On the swing was a small boy, his face tilted up to the sun, laughing with pure, unadulterated joy.
Jamey cleared his throat, his voice carefully neutral. "She gave birth to a son a year ago in a private hospital in Santa Barbara, California. His name is Leo Conway. He carries her surname."
Brice's gaze remained locked on the photo. On the boy's bright green eyes, so much like Everleigh's.
"The birth records indicate a conception date approximately three months after she... left New York," Jamey added, choosing his words with extreme care.
Brice's hand, holding the file, tightened. The edges of the paper began to crumple under the pressure of his fingers. The silence in the office stretched, becoming heavy and suffocating. Jamey could feel the temperature drop.
"Who," Brice's voice was a low rasp, like gravel scraping against stone, "is the father?"
"We're still working on that, sir. Her life in California was extremely private." Jamey felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple.
Brice stared at the photo of the laughing boy. A storm of emotions he couldn't name-rage, jealousy, a profound and searing sense of betrayal-rose in his chest, hot as lava.
She had left him. And she had immediately found someone else. Had a child with someone else.
The thought was a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs.
He slapped the folder shut. The sound echoed in the silent office like a gunshot.
"Keep digging," he ordered, his voice dangerously quiet. "I want to know who the man is."
He walked back to his desk, the photo burned into his mind. He picked up the file again, his mind racing.
"And Jamey."
"Sir?"
"Get me a DNA sample from the boy."
Jamey hesitated for a second. "Sir, the timeline-"
"I want to be one hundred percent certain," Brice cut him off, his voice like ice. "I want to know, for a fact, that he is not mine."
