“I don’t know Crystal.” Violet blinks furiously against the well of tears forming. “I just wanted to meet my asshole father once, that’s all.” Her voice cracks with emotion.
Henry’s shoulders sink, his rage seeming to evaporate. “I’m sorry, Violet, but you have the wrong man.”
“Are you Henry Wolf?”
“Yes, but I am not your father.”
“Oh, yeah?” She digs into her backpack and pulls out a manila envelope, tears streaming down her cheeks. “This says you are!” She throws it at Henry’s feet and then spins on her heels and marches to the elevator to jab at the button. Sullivan must have sent the car back up to wait on our floor because it opens instantly and she’s gone.
Henry and I steal a glance at each other before he stoops to collect the envelope, sliding a stack of paperwork from it. It’s legal size, the bottom section bent in an awkward fold.
“What does it say?” I ask.
Henry shakes his head absently as he speed-reads through the first page.
And then his face blanches.
Oh my God. “It’s true?” My jaw drops with my stomach.
He doesn’t need to answer me with words. His expression says it all.
CHAPTER 7
Henry charges through our front door to the phone and punches the key to reach security. “The girl who came down the elevator,” he barks into the receiver, “is she there?” He listens intently, then curses. “Stop her if you can. Please.”
For once, our speedy elevator is not a benefit. She must have left the building already.
I edge in closer as Henry waits for an answer, my pulse pounding in my ears. “So, it’s true? Violet’s your daughter?”
Henry’s eyes flitter to me, a look in them that I’ve never seen before—a mixture of shock, confusion, and possibly hurt. “I don’t know.”
But I know. I saw it in Violet’s delicate features. The similarity.
Henry has a child.
Unbeknownst to him, but a woman out there is the mother of his child.
I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach, and I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what he must feel.
“Yes,” he answers in a rush, and then his shoulders sink. “Thank you for trying. If she returns at any time, keep her there and call me immediately.” He drops the receiver and sinks against the wall, the back of his head thumping as he studies the ceiling.
I bite my tongue against the question burning to escape. Who does the love of my life, the future father of my children, already share a child with?
He must sense it lingering there. “Her mother’s name is Audrey,” he whispers, so softly I nearly miss it.
“Was she a girlfriend?”
“I wouldn’t call her that.” Henry tosses the paperwork on a side table and strolls to the living room bar cart, where he pours himself a scotch.
I trail after him, wanting to give him space but desperate for more details.
He sucks back a mouthful of the amber liquid. “Ms. Audrey Campbell,” he says, staring out at the panoramic view of Manhattan from the windows. “My sophomore year English teacher at Hartley.”
“Your teacher? Henry!” I gasp, trying to process this. “How old was she?”
“Twenty-nine.”
My mouth hangs as I do the math. “She was fourteen years older than you.”
“So what? I’m eleven years older than you.”
“It’s so not the same. What that was is … is … illegal!” Henry isn’t the type to shy away from indiscretions, but she should have known better. “And we’re only ten and a half years apart, by the way,” I add in a mutter.
He peers over his shoulder, sees my horrified expression, and chuckles. “I know it’s not the same.” He pours a second glass and holds it out to me.
I accept it wordlessly, downing it in one sip that burns and makes me cough. I’ve only ever tasted scotch on Henry’s tongue, but tonight’s news bomb warrants it.
“She was smoking hot. Sexy and confident.”
“And that makes it okay?”
He sighs. “No.”
“What would a twenty-nine-year-old, smoking hot, sexy, confident woman want with a fifteen-year-old boy? There’s no way you looked like this”—I wave a hand at his chiseled body—“at that age.”
“I was a lot scrawnier,” he admits. “But I had my charm. And she was a good teacher.” A secretive smile touches his lips, as if he’s reminiscing.