The park Dominic chose the next day was smaller.
Quieter.
Tucked between two brownstones on a side street in the West Village, it had a single swing set, a modest climbing structure, and a sandbox with a lid that someone actually used.
When Charlotte arrived with Milo in tow, he was already there.
Sitting on a bench, a paper bag at his feet.
He stood as they approached.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she replied.
“Dom!” Milo squealed, breaking free of her hand and barreling toward him.
Dominic crouched just in time to catch him.
“Hey, bud,” he said, arms closing around the boy with a familiarity that still startled her. “Good to see you.”
“You bwought it?” Milo demanded, wriggling to peer into the bag.
Dominic grinned.
“I am a man of my word,” he said, pulling out a plastic dinosaur nearly as big as his forearm.
It was, indeed, a Tyrannosaurus.
Green, with slightly ridiculous eyes.
“Rexy’s cousin,” Dominic announced. “He doesn’t have a name yet. I thought maybe you could help.”
Milo gasped.
“He’s BIG,” he said reverently. “Bigger than Rexy.”
“Don’t tell Rexy that,” Dominic murmured. “He’ll get jealous.”
Milo giggled, clutching the new dinosaur to his chest.
“His name is…” He scrunched his face up.
“Rocky,” he declared finally. “’Cause he walks on wocks.”
Dominic’s lips twitched.
“Rocky it is,” he said solemnly. “Nice to meet you, Rocky.”
He held out a finger and solemnly shook the T-Rex’s tiny plastic arm.
Charlotte watched them, a strange cocktail of emotion swirling in her chest.
Love.
Fear.
Awe.
Possessiveness.
Hope.
She sat on the other side of the bench, giving them space.
Dominic settled beside her a minute later, Milo already half up the ladder to the little slide, Rocky clamped in one fist.
“How are you?” he asked quietly.
“Exhausted,” she said. “You?”
“Ditto,” he said. “Gillian keeps saying ‘this is manageable’ like she’s talking about a server outage, not my entire life.”
She huffed a laugh.
“PR calmer?” she asked.
“They’re…strategizing,” he said. “Someone used the phrase ‘opportunity to humanize the Steele brand.’ I nearly fired them.”
She smiled.
“I told Serena the same thing,” she said. “She used the word ‘journey.’ I told her we weren’t in a yogurt commercial.”
He laughed, genuine and full.
Milo slid down the small slide and ran back up, cheeks flushed, curls bouncing.
“Watch me!” he shouted.
“We are,” they both said at once.
He slid again, more dramatically this time, landing on his bottom and laughing.
“You know this…can’t last, right?” Dominic said quietly once Milo was absorbed in a new game of burying Rocky in the sandbox.
“What can’t?” she asked.
“This…bubble,” he said. “Just us. Small parks. Carefully chosen benches. Eventually, the story will outpace our ability to…contain it.”
“I know,” she said.
“Are you…ready?” he asked.
“For what?” she asked, even though she knew.
“To say it,” he said. “Out loud. On purpose. To someone with a byline.”
Her throat tightened.
“The idea makes me want to throw up,” she said. “So I guess that means yes.”
He chuckled.
“Brave,” he said.
“Stupid,” she muttered.
“Those are often the same thing,” he said.
She stared at Milo, who was now carefully constructing a mound over Rocky’s tail.
“Henry’s friend,” she said. “The journalist. He texted me her name. Lila Chen. Ever heard of her?”
“Yes,” he said. “She wrote that piece about the chef in Chicago who left a three-star kitchen to run a soup kitchen. It made me…uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable how?” she asked.
“Like maybe I was…doing life wrong,” he said.
She smiled faintly.
“High praise,” she said.
“High risk,” he said.
“You’re still reading profiles,” she said. “You’re not that cynical yet.”
“Don’t tell my board,” he murmured.
She watched Milo, who had now enlisted another toddler to help bury Rocky, babbling something about “dino caves.”
“Do we…bring him?” she asked. “To the interview.”
His jaw tightened.
“No,” he said. “Not at first. We…talk. Maybe…show a photo. Just one. Controlled. Back of his head. His hand. Not…his face. Not yet.”
She nodded, relieved.
“And we set…terms,” he added. “No surprise angles. No…gotcha questions. If she asks something we’re not ready to answer, we…say so.”
“And she writes it anyway,” Charlotte said.
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe she…earns our trust. We don’t know yet.”
“Trust is…not my strong suit,” she said.
“Mine either,” he said. “We’ll…practice. On someone who can’t tank our stock price.”
She smiled despite everything.
“Your metaphors are appalling,” she said.
“Occupational hazard,” he said.
“Stop saying that,” she replied.
He bumped her shoulder lightly with his.
“Make me,” he said.
Heat prickled in her cheeks.
“Moooom!” Milo hollered suddenly, as if sensing the electricity.
She exhaled, grateful for the interruption.
“Yes?” she called.
“Dirt in my shoe!” he announced, holding up a tiny sneaker.
“Tragic,” she said. “Bring it here.”
He did, hopping on one foot, then collapsing into a giggling heap.
Dominic knelt and gently tugged the shoe off, shaking out a spray of sand.
“Occupational hazard,” he murmured to the boy.
Milo shrieked with laughter, no idea what the words meant, just delighted by the sound.
Charlotte watched them, an almost overwhelming sense of rightness colliding with the knowledge that nothing about this was simple.
He caught her eye.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Liar,” he said.
She hesitated.
“This is…nice,” she said finally.
He smiled.
“It is,” he agreed.
“That scares me,” she added.
His smile faded.
“Me too,” he said.
***
Lila Chen arrived in New York three days later.
She came to the Reid Manhattan, not to Steele.
Neutral ground.
Or, more accurately, *their* ground.
She met them in one of the smaller lounges off the lobby, a cozy space with deep chairs and a fireplace that had been gas-installed only after Charlotte pointed out that no one wanted to lounge near a fake log on a TV screen.
Lila was in her mid-thirties, hair in a messy bun, glasses perched on her nose, notebook in hand.
She wore jeans and boots and a blazer that had seen better days.
Henry had described her as “sharp as a tack and twice as likely to hurt you if you sit on her wrong.”
Charlotte believed it.
“This is surreal,” Lila said as she shook their hands. “I’ve written about you both. Separately. For years. I never thought I’d be…here.”
“Happy to help your brand,” Dominic said dryly.
She snorted.
“Let’s be clear,” she said. “I’m not here to write your press release. I’m here to write…you. If you want fluff, call *Vanity Fair.* If you want…human, that’s me.”
“Human,” Charlotte repeated. “Scary.”
“Necessary,” Lila said. “From what Henry tells me.”
Charlotte shot her uncle a look where he lurked near the door, pretending to check email and absolutely eavesdropping.
“What *did* you tell her?” she demanded.
“Only that you’re both disasters in need of…gentle framing,” he said cheerfully.
“I hate you,” she muttered.
He grinned.
“I know,” he said.
They sat.
Lila flipped open her notebook.
“Ground rules,” she said. “I’ll record, with your permission. You’ll have the right to fact-check. Not to censor. If something’s incorrect, we fix it. If it’s uncomfortable, we…talk about it. Fair?”
“Fair-ish,” Dominic said. “We reserve the right to walk if this turns into…a hit piece.”
“It won’t,” she said. “I don’t do hits. They don’t age well.”
“And him?” Charlotte asked quietly. “Our son.”
Lila’s gaze softened.
“He is not…the story,” she said. “He’s…part of it. But I’m not writing ‘Secret Baby of Billionaires!’ I’m writing…how people like you, with your…platforms, your…privilege, your…mess, navigate a world that *expects* perfection and lives on imperfection. He’s…at the center. But he’s not…bait.”
“Good answer,” Henry muttered.
“Thank you,” Lila said without looking at him.
They talked.
For hours.
She asked smart, uncomfortable questions.
About London.
About the decision not to contact each other.
About the moment Charlotte had seen those first two lines on the test.
About the night Dominic had seen the photo on Eleanor’s desk.
About fear.
About anger.
About the Aspen deal.
About Eleanor.
“That,” Lila said at one point, “is a whole other feature.”
“Over my dead body,” Eleanor said from where she’d appeared silently at the doorway, like a very chic vampire.
“We’ll save that for the second profile,” Lila said, unfazed.
Eleanor sniffed.
They talked about Milo only in broad strokes.
His age.
His love of dinosaurs.
His Lego-in-nose incident, which Charlotte recounted reluctantly after Henry insisted it was “too good not to include.”
“You’re framing this,” Lila said at the end, pen paused, “as…a slow reveal. You didn’t…run out with a press conference. You’re not…posting him. You’re…making space for him while still acknowledging…he exists. Why that choice? Why not…all in or all out?”
Charlotte thought of the park photos.
Of her own private grid of moments on her phone.
“He deserves a childhood,” she said. “Not a…campaign. Not a saga. I can’t…protect him from everything. But I can…choose not to…sell him. Not even…metaphorically.”
Dominic nodded.
“And I spent my childhood being…invisible,” he said. “A ghost in hallways. A kid whose father pretended he wasn’t there. I can’t…do that to him. I won’t. Existence is…non-negotiable. Exploitation…is.”
Lila scribbled something.
“Good line,” she said.
“It’s not a line,” he said. “It’s…my spine.”
She looked up.
“Then let’s…show that,” she said.
When she left, hours later, they were both wrung out.
“That felt like therapy,” Charlotte said as the elevator doors closed on Lila and Henry.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Dominic said.
“I say that like I’ll need a drink,” she replied.
“Come on,” he said. “I know a bar.”
“Of course you do,” she muttered.
“On the roof,” he added. “Where no one can long-lens us without a helicopter.”
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
“Fine,” she said. “One. Then I have to pick him up.”
“Deal,” he said.
***
The roof bar at the Reid Manhattan was technically closed to the public at that hour.
Perks of keys and titles opened it.
The sky was streaked with pink and gold, the city below washing into twilight.
They sat at a table near the edge, heaters humming quietly, glasses in hand.
“I’m proud of you,” he said suddenly.
She made a face.
“Stop saying that,” she said. “It makes me feel like I’m about to flunk out of something.”
“You’re not,” he said. “You’re…passing. With…messy colors.”
She laughed.
“You’re drunk,” she said.
“Barely,” he said. “Whiskey has nothing on…today.”
They looked out at the city.
“If you could go back,” he said softly, “to that night in London. Knowing…all this. Would you…change it?”
She thought about it.
About the rain on the windows.
The heat of his mouth on her skin.
The way she’d felt both more herself and less than she’d ever been.
About the two pink lines.
The ultrasound.
The kicks.
The first cry.
“No,” she said eventually. “I’d…change how we left it. Not…that we did it.”
He nodded slowly.
“Same,” he said.
He shifted his chair slightly, angling toward her.
The air between them thickened.
Her heart pounded.
“We shouldn’t,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said.
He leaned in anyway.
His hand came up, fingers brushing her cheek, feather-light.
He paused, giving her an out.
She didn’t take it.
His mouth met hers.
Soft.
Careful.
Not like London.
Not a crash.
A question.
And god, she wanted to answer.
Heat swept through her, low and sharp, everything in her going yes, yes, *yes*.
She leaned in, fingers curling into his shirt.
He made a sound, low in his throat.
The kiss deepened.
His other hand slid to the back of her neck, anchoring her.
The world fell away.
No boardrooms.
No headlines.
No war rooms.
Just the taste of him, familiar and new, and the way her body remembered exactly how to fit against his.
Her phone vibrated insistently on the table.
She ignored it.
He broke away first, breath ragged.
“Your phone,” he said, forehead resting against hers.
“Let it,” she whispered, trying to pull him back.
“Charlotte,” he said, a warning.
It buzzed again.
Three times.
Something cold cut through the heat.
She fumbled for it, heart still racing.
Mila.
Calling.
Not texting.
Ice flooded her veins.
She swiped.
“Mila?” she gasped. “Is he okay?”
“Charlie,” Mila said, voice too high. “He’s okay now. But—you need to—he fell. At the playground. He—he hit his head.”
The world snapped into horrible, sharp focus.
“What?” Charlotte said, already on her feet, the chair scraping back. “How bad? Is he conscious? Is he—”
“He’s awake,” Mila rushed. “He cried. There’s a bump. Big one. I took him to urgent care. They say he’s okay. But he…he keeps asking for you.”
“I’m on my way,” Charlotte said. “Stay there. Tell them I’m coming. Don’t let them discharge him until I see him.”
“Okay,” Mila said. “Hurry.”
The line clicked.
Her hands were shaking.
“What happened?” Dominic demanded, already standing.
“He fell,” she said, having to force the words out. “Head. Urgent care.”
His face went pale.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“I can—” she began.
He was already moving.
“This isn’t optional,” he said. “You’re not doing this alone.”
She didn’t argue.
Couldn’t.
They ran for the elevator.
The city blurred.
All that mattered was a small boy in a too-bright exam room with a cartoon mural on the wall and a bump on his head the size of an egg.
And the fact that just when she’d finally given herself permission to be in this—this man, this mess, this impossible hope—life had, as always, yanked the rug.
Fault lines, she thought wildly as the elevator plummeted.
Some days they were metaphorical.
Some days they were the difference between a child’s laughter and a concussion.
Either way, she was about to find out just how much pressure they could all take before something gave.
***