The city looked different after a snowstorm.
Even when the snow was two thousand miles away.
Charlotte watched Manhattan slide past the car window, gray and damp and utterly oblivious to the fact that three days ago she’d been high enough up a mountain to feel like she could reach out and touch the sky.
Milo chattered in his car seat beside her, narrating an elaborate story about a dinosaur who’d gotten lost in the snow and been rescued by a “bwave helicopter man.”
“Like Dom,” he added as an afterthought. “He flies in the sky.”
Her fingers tightened on the seat belt.
“Dom doesn’t fly,” she said lightly. “Planes do. People sit in them.”
“He flies,” Milo insisted. “Like in my dweam.”
Right.
The dream.
The briefcase.
The man with gray eyes.
Her pulse ticked up.
“We’re almost home,” she said instead, peering at the familiar storefronts. “Do you want grilled cheese or pasta for dinner?”
“Both,” he said decisively.
“Ambitious,” she murmured.
***
Back in her apartment, after the suitcase had vomited laundry onto the bedroom floor and Milo had been negotiated into the bath, Charlotte stood at the counter with her phone in her hand and felt…suspended.
She’d sent him a quick message from the airport that morning.
> We landed. He says hi. And that “airplanes should go to space.”
His reply had come while she was wrangling a juice box in the back of a cab.
> He’s not wrong. > > Glad you’re home safe.
Now, standing barefoot on her own kitchen tile, she wanted to text something else.
Thank you for catching me when the thunder got loud.
Thank you for not kissing me in that hallway.
Thank you for making our mess feel less like a trap and more like a…path.
Instead, she typed:
> Milo’s been telling his dinosaur a very dramatic story about “Dom pushing swings.” You’ve made an impression.
The dots appeared almost immediately.
> Good impression, I hope.
> So far.
> I’d like to keep that up.
Her chest ached.
> He likes seeing you. > *I* like seeing you with him.
The dots paused.
Came back.
> Careful. That sounds dangerously close to a compliment.
> Don’t let it go to your head.
> Too late.
She smiled, the knot between her shoulders easing.
Mila glanced up from the stove.
“You are smiling at your phone,” she observed. “Is that the shark?”
Charlotte’s mouth twitched.
“Don’t call him that,” she said. “It’s rude.”
“It is accurate,” Mila said.
“He…sat on my floor in the dark and kept me company during a thunderstorm,” Charlotte said. “Sharks don’t do that.”
“Maybe he is a shark with feelings,” Mila conceded. “Like in the movies.”
“You’re spending too much time on Netflix,” Charlotte muttered.
Milo padded out of the bathroom in his dinosaur pajamas, curls damp, cheeks pink.
“Mommy, look,” he said, holding his arms out. “Lina made me a tail.”
The pajama top did, indeed, have a small, soft tail sewn onto the back.
“You’re ferocious,” she said solemnly. “Roar at me.”
He did.
They ate mashed-together grilled cheese and pasta at the coffee table while watching a cartoon about a construction vehicle that wanted to be a dancer.
Halfway through, her phone buzzed again.
Dominic.
> Can we talk tomorrow? Lawyer wants us to start drafting some actual…structure. Before we get busier with Aspen.
She exhaled.
> Yes. Afternoon? I’m at the office all day.
> 3 p.m. My office? Fewer maternal landmines than yours.
She hesitated.
She’d only been to Steele’s headquarters once, years ago, for a forgettable industry mixer.
Walking into his tower now, as the mother of his child and the partner on his latest deal, felt…different.
And a little like trespassing.
> 3 is fine. Text me the floor so I don’t accidentally walk into your gym or something.
> 38. And our gym is on 10. I’ll make sure they let you in next time you feel like judging my form.
> I judge you on enough things as it is.
> I live for your disapproval.
She shook her head, warmth creeping up her neck anyway.
“Mommy, who are you texting?” Milo asked around a mouthful of pasta.
“Just…work,” she said.
“Is it Dom?” he asked.
She froze.
“Maybe,” she hedged.
He beamed.
“Tell him I say hi,” he ordered. “And that my dino’s name is *Rexy*, not *‘dino.’*”
Her throat tightened.
> Milo says hi. And has formally named his dinosaur Rexy. Please update your records, she typed.
> Noted. Rexy. Understood. Tell him I say hi back. And that we’ll work on a name for the T-Rex I’m going to have to buy to keep up.
She didn’t show that part to Milo.
She just said, “Dom says hi back.”
Milo nodded, satisfied.
“Okay,” he said. “Now watch.”
He turned his attention back to the dancing bulldozer.
Charlotte tried to do the same.
But her mind was already in a glass tower across town, sitting in a different office, at a different table, talking about custody clauses and holidays and the future.
***
The next day, Steele Headquarters was humming.
The elevator opened onto the thirty-eighth floor with a soft chime. The space beyond was all dark steel and warm wood, sharp lines softened by plants and art.
Jess, the front desk associate who’d led her up from the lobby before, looked up from her tablet and grinned.
“Ms. Reid,” she said. “Good to see you again.”
“You too,” Charlotte said. “Dom…Mr. Steele said to come up?”
“He’s in his office,” Jess said. “You remember the way?”
“Yes,” she lied.
Jess saw through it.
“I’ll walk you,” she said, setting the tablet down.
They moved down a corridor lined with large, abstract canvases—sharp angles and muted color, something about them both chaotic and controlled.
“Busy day?” Charlotte asked, mostly to fill the silence.
“Always,” Jess said. “We launched a new package this morning. Group chat’s on fire.”
“Influencers?” Charlotte guessed.
“Retreats,” Jess corrected. “Yoga. Sound baths. ‘Digital detox.’” She made air quotes. “Dom hates anything with the word ‘detox’ in it, but the numbers don’t lie.”
“Neither do the hangovers,” Charlotte said.
Jess snorted.
They stopped at a glass door that bore his name in small, discreet lettering.
Jess knocked once, then cracked it open.
“She’s here,” she said.
“Send her in,” came his voice.
Jess stepped aside.
“Good luck,” she whispered conspiratorially.
Charlotte rolled her eyes and walked in.
His office was very him.
Floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides, the city spread beneath like a circuit board. Dark desk, clean lines, precisely organized chaos—neatly stacked folders, a few stray post-its, a stress ball that looked suspiciously like it had been thrown at someone recently.
On one wall hung the framed blueprint of his first hotel; on another, a blown-up photograph of a busy lobby taken from above—people flowing in patterns like water around furniture.
He stood as she entered.
“Ms. Reid,” he said, then, as the door swung shut behind her, amended, “Charlotte.”
“Dom,” she said.
It felt strange and familiar all at once, saying his name in his space.
He gestured toward the small seating area near the window.
“Sit,” he said. “Do you want coffee? Water? Whiskey?”
“It’s three in the afternoon,” she said.
“Coffee, then,” he said.
She smiled despite herself.
“Water’s fine,” she said, sinking into the low leather chair.
He poured from a glass bottle into a tumbler and handed it to her.
Their fingers brushed.
A tiny electric tremor ran up her arm.
He sat opposite her, on the edge of the sofa, elbows on his knees.
“Gillian’s joining us at three-thirty,” he said. “She wants to go over draft language. I thought we could…talk first.”
“Talk,” she repeated. “Right.”
“Define expectations,” he clarified. “Before we put anything in writing.”
She nodded, even as anxiety prickled the back of her neck.
“Okay,” she said. “Expectations.”
He took a breath.
“I don’t want to…blow up his world,” he said. “Or yours. That’s…my baseline.”
“Same,” she said. “We’re aligned there.”
“I also don’t want to be…a guest star,” he added. “Someone he sees once a month at a park and then forgets for three weeks. I want…consistency.”
She swallowed.
“Like…what?” she asked. “Once a week? Twice?”
He looked pained.
“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “I don’t know what’s…too much. Or…not enough.”
She appreciated the honesty.
It made her less defensive.
“You travel,” she said. “A lot. So do I. So does my mother. Our lives are…moving targets. I don’t want to promise him something we can’t keep.”
“Then we don’t promise him…days,” he said. “We promise him…patterns. ‘You’ll see Dom every week in some way. Sometimes in person. Sometimes on a screen. But he’s…there.’”
The word *there* landed like a small weight in her chest.
“I can live with that,” she said slowly. “Starting…small. Weekly…something. As we all adjust. As he adjusts.”
“And holidays?” he asked. “Birthdays. Big days.”
A flash of fear.
“You’re not…trying to take them,” she said.
“No,” he said quickly. “I just…want to be part of them. Even if it’s…a morning call. Or…coming over the day before. Or after. I don’t need…Christmas morning. I need…a place in the season.”
Her throat tightened.
“We can…map that,” she said. “With Tessa. With Gillian. I just…need time to…wrap my head around…sharing.”
He nodded.
“I know,” he said.
They sat in quiet for a moment, the city humming below.
“Do you…regret telling me?” he asked suddenly.
Her head snapped up.
“What?” she said.
“Telling me,” he repeated. “Last week. War room. Do you…regret it?”
She looked at him.
At the faint line between his brows.
At the way his jaw tightened as he waited.
“No,” she said.
The word surprised her with how easy it was.
“I regret…waiting so long,” she added. “But not…telling you.”
He exhaled, something easing in his shoulders.
“Good,” he said softly.
“Do you?” she asked.
“Regret knowing?” he said. “Never.”
A beat.
“Regret…London?” he added, mouth quirking. “Sometimes. For…obvious reasons. But mostly…no.”
She smiled wryly.
“Obvious reasons being…emotional trauma and legal fees?” she asked.
“And an alarming number of dinosaurs in my Amazon cart,” he said.
She laughed, tension dissolving a little.
A knock sounded.
“Come in,” he called.
Gillian slipped in, tablet in hand, gray dress as sharp as her gaze.
“Afternoon,” she said. “Apologies—I was arguing with a man in Zurich about force majeure. Always a good time.”
“You live an exciting life,” Charlotte said.
“I do,” Gillian said. “Today, however, we get to argue about something more interesting.”
She sat, crossing her legs.
“So,” she said. “I’ve sketched out a skeleton for a parental responsibility agreement. Before you panic, it’s just a framework. We’ll adjust as needed.”
She projected the document from her tablet onto the large screen on the wall.
Headings appeared.
**1. Acknowledgment of Paternity.** **2. Decision-Making Authority.** **3. Time-Sharing Arrangements.** **4. Financial Responsibility.** **5. Confidentiality and Public Disclosure.** **6. Dispute Resolution.**
The words made Charlotte’s stomach flip.
“Looks like a merger document,” she muttered.
“In some ways, it is,” Gillian said. “Only messier.”
They went through it section by section.
“Acknowledgment” was simple, on the surface.
They both agreed Dominic would be listed as the father on any future legal documents.
Birth certificate amendments, if they chose to pursue them.
Wills.
Trusts.
The real heat came with section two.
“Who makes medical decisions?” Gillian asked. “School choices? Religious upbringing, if any?”
“Me,” Charlotte said.
“Us,” Dominic said at the same time.
They looked at each other.
Gillian’s brows rose.
“Right,” she said. “Let’s unpick that.”
“I’ve been doing this for three years,” Charlotte said. “His pediatrician. His daycare. His…routine. I’m not…handing the wheel over now.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Dominic said, surprisingly unruffled. “I’m asking…for a voice. Not a veto. A…vote.”
“Joint legal custody,” Gillian translated. “Practically speaking, that means major decisions require both your consent. Day-to-day—what he eats, what time he goes to bed—is the primary residence parent’s domain. That’s you, Charlotte. Big things—changing schools, elective surgery, relocating—would need…discussion.”
“And if we don’t agree?” Charlotte asked.
“Then we build in a mechanism,” Gillian said. “Mediation before court. A neutral third party to weigh in if you hit a stalemate.”
“It sounds…clinical,” Charlotte said.
“It’s scaffolding,” Gillian said. “So when emotions are high, you have a process instead of just…fighting in the hallway.”
“Makes sense,” Dominic said.
She shot him a look.
“It does,” he said. “You don’t want to be at the doctor’s office arguing about vaccines. You want to have…argued about it already, calmly, with Tessa in the room, and then present a united front.”
She thought of Milo’s face the last time he’d gotten a shot—betrayed and wounded and brave.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Okay. Joint. With…mediation.”
“Good,” Gillian said, making a note.
Time-sharing was next.
They agreed, for now, on something simple.
Weekly contact.
No fixed days.
Some in person, some via video if travel got in the way.
“We’ll revisit in six months,” Tessa had already told her in their last solo call. “Kids change fast. So do parents.”
Financial responsibility was…awkward.
“I don’t need your money,” Charlotte said, bristling when Gillian suggested child support guidelines.
“I know,” Dominic said. “But I want to contribute. To…school. Activities. Whatever he needs. Otherwise I’ll feel like I’m…outsourcing responsibility to your family’s balance sheet.”
“It’s not about…pride,” she said. “It’s about not wanting you to think you can…buy your way in.”
“I can’t,” he said firmly. “I know that. This isn’t…about access. It’s about…ownership. Of my…part. I need to…write the checks. Even if he doesn’t know it yet.”
She hated that it made sense.
“Fine,” she said. “We’ll…set up a fund. For…education. Medical. Extracurriculars. Joint oversight.”
“Joint signatures,” he agreed.
“Done,” Gillian said. “We’ll tailor it to keep the IRS happy.”
Confidentiality was where things got thorny again.
“I don’t want a gag order,” Charlotte said. “I don’t want to…raise him in a lie. But I also don’t want…this…to be fodder.”
“You’re both…public figures,” Gillian said. “Relatively speaking. So is he, by extension. We can’t control that entirely. We can control…how much you feed it.”
“Minimal,” Dominic said. “If at all possible.”
“Minimal,” Charlotte echoed.
“Then we build in an agreement,” Gillian said. “No public discussion of him without mutual consent. No posting his identifiable photos on public platforms. No using him in marketing materials, directly or indirectly. If one of you is approached by the press, you tell the other before you respond.”
“Especially you,” Charlotte muttered, thinking of his tendency to disarm interviewers with offhand honesty.
“I’ll behave,” he said. “Mostly.”
“And if someone else leaks it?” she asked. “An employee. A…relative. A disgruntled ex-…something.”
“Then we go on offense,” Gillian said. “You control the narrative. Together. Or you say nothing. Together. The key word here is…together.”
It sounded so simple.
It wouldn’t be.
But it was better than chaos.
They wrapped an hour later, brains buzzing, notes scribbled in the margins of legalese.
When Gillian left them alone again, the office felt oddly…quiet.
“Tired?” he asked.
“Drained,” she said. “Is this what…divorce feels like?”
He huffed a laugh.
“Probably,” he said. “Plus lawyers arguing about who gets the blender.”
“I’m keeping the blender,” she said.
“You can have the blender,” he replied. “I’ll take the Lego.”
She smiled.
They sat there a moment, watching the light shift on the buildings outside.
“I should go,” she said eventually, checking the time. “I promised Milo I’d be home for bath.”
He nodded.
“Text me when you get there,” he said. “So I know you didn’t get eaten by Midtown.”
“Midtown fears me,” she said.
“So do I,” he said.
Her eyes met his.
Heat flickered, uninvited.
“This…” She gestured at the screen where their future had just been bullet-pointed. “This is…a lot.”
“Yes,” he said.
“But it’s…right,” she added. “I think.”
“I know,” he said.
He stood as she did.
Walked her to the door.
He opened it.
Paused.
“Charlotte,” he said softly.
She looked up.
“Yeah?” she asked.
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
For one terrifying, electric second, she thought he was going to ignore every boundary they’d set and kiss her in his damn doorway.
He didn’t.
He just said, “Thank you. For…choosing this. Even though it’s…hard.”
Her throat felt tight.
“Hard things built Aspen,” she said.
“And him,” he said.
Her eyes burned.
She blinked quickly.
“Go,” she said. “Before I…change my mind.”
“About what?” he asked.
“Everything,” she said.
He smiled, small and sad.
“Text me,” he said again.
“I will,” she replied.
She meant it.
She just didn’t realize the next time she reached for her phone, it would be because the world was, predictably, starting to sniff around the edges of their precariously guarded truth.
***