Sunday afternoon was hot and bright.
Milo napped later than usual, worn out from the playground. When he woke, hair damp with sweat, cheeks flushed, Charlotte coaxed him into the small collared shirt and soft chinos Mila had laid out.
“Why can’t I wear my dino shirt?” he asked, tugging at his collar.
“Because we’re going to see Grandma,” she said gently. “It’s…fancy.”
“I like dino shirt,” he insisted. “Grandma likes it too.”
“You’ve met her…twice,” Charlotte reminded him. “I don’t think she had time to form a shirt opinion.”
He frowned in deep, three-year-old contemplation.
“She gave me a car,” he said. “Red one.”
“Yes,” she said. “She did.”
“A big car,” he added. “Bigger than yours.”
“Yes,” she said again. “She has…a lot of big cars.”
Mila watched from the doorway, arms folded.
“You okay?” she asked quietly in Portuguese.
“Define ‘okay,’” Charlotte replied in the same language.
Mila’s mouth softened.
“You can still say no,” she said. “We don’t have to go.”
“She’s his grandmother,” Charlotte said. “If there’s any chance they can have…something… I should try.”
“Just don’t let her use him,” Mila said. “To hurt you. Or to keep you here.”
“She’s already using him to keep me here,” Charlotte said dryly. “Threatening to cut me out of the company if I tell his father. Weaponizing secrets is her love language.”
“Not funny,” Mila said.
“I wasn’t joking,” Charlotte said.
Mila sighed.
“If she says anything…ugly tonight, you call me,” she said. “I will come up and pour feijoada on her carpet.”
Despite everything, Charlotte smiled.
“I’ll keep that nuclear option in mind,” she said.
They took the private elevator from the underground garage to the forty-fifth floor.
Milo bounced on his toes, clutching his toy dinosaur.
“Do we have to be quiet?” he whispered.
“For the elevator?” she asked. “No. For Grandma’s office…yes.”
“Is she scary?” he whispered.
The doors slid open.
Eleanor’s assistant, a perfectly polished woman in her forties, looked up.
“Ms. Reid,” she said. “Good evening.”
“Hi, Natalie,” Charlotte said. “He’s…ready.”
Natalie’s gaze slid to Milo.
Her expression softened in a way it never did for anyone else.
“Well, hello there,” she said. “You must be Milo.”
He hid half behind Charlotte’s leg, peeking out.
“Hi,” he mumbled.
“I like your dinosaur,” Natalie said gravely.
“It’s T-Rex,” he informed her.
“Terrifying,” she said. “Go on in. She’s expecting you.”
Charlotte’s heart thudded.
She pushed open the heavy double doors.
Eleanor’s office was bathed in golden early-evening light. The skyline glowed. The long conference table had been cleared; in its place, near the windows, a smaller round table was set with three places. Crystal. China. Silver.
Eleanor stood by the window, a glass of white wine in hand. She turned as they entered.
For a moment, her mask slipped.
Her gaze dropped to Milo, widened, then softened in a way Charlotte almost never saw.
Then it was gone, shutters slamming back into place.
“Milo,” she said. “Come here.”
He hesitated, looking up at Charlotte.
“It’s okay,” she murmured. “That’s Grandma.”
He walked forward, small sneakers squeaking faintly on the polished wood floor.
Eleanor crouched—slowly, like a baby deer unused to the movement—until she was at his level.
Up close, Charlotte saw the tiny tremor in her mother’s hands as she reached out.
“You’ve grown,” Eleanor said, as if they ran into each other once a month. “The last time I saw you, you were…smaller.”
“I’m big now,” Milo informed her. “I’m three.”
“So you are.” A ghost of a smile. “Very big.”
He studied her intently.
“You have my eyes,” he said with childlike bluntness.
Charlotte’s breath caught.
Eleanor blinked.
“Do I?” she asked.
“They’re…gray,” he said, serious. “Like mine. Mommy has blue. Lina has brown. You have gray. Like me.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said softly. “We match.”
He beamed.
“You have my hair?” he asked hopefully.
“No,” she said. “I’m afraid I lost mine. It comes and goes at my age.”
He giggled.
“She’s joking,” Charlotte said automatically.
“I knowww,” he said, rolling his eyes like she was the silly one.
Eleanor’s mouth twitched.
She reached out and, hesitantly, brushed a strand of his hair off his forehead.
“So soft,” she murmured, almost to herself.
He tolerated the touch, then wriggled away, curiosity drawing him toward the desk.
“What’s this?” he asked, pointing at the silver frame with the photo of him and Charlotte.
Charlotte’s stomach dropped.
She hadn’t realized Eleanor kept it so prominently.
“That’s you,” Eleanor said. “And your mother.”
He peered closer.
“That’s baby me,” he declared. “I was small.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said. “But still…very big.”
He seemed satisfied.
He turned, eyes landing on the city view.
“Wow,” he breathed. “Big.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said again. “It is.”
Charlotte stood back, watching.
Her mother was…different with him.
Softer. Less precise.
There was still control, of course. Always control. But there was also something else.
Wonder, maybe.
Loss.
“Come,” Eleanor said after a minute. “Let’s sit. I had them bring chicken for you. And mashed potatoes. No truffle oil. I was told you are…particular.”
“He hates truffle,” Charlotte said.
“So do I,” Eleanor replied. “A fad that lasted far too long.”
They sat.
Milo swung his legs, humming to himself.
Eleanor watched him like a scientist observing a new species.
“Do you like your school?” she asked.
He put a pea on his fork, considered, then nodded. “Yes.”
“What do you like best?” she asked.
“Blocks,” he said instantly. “Building stuff. And Sammy. He’s my best friend. He has a dog. It’s big. Bigger than me.”
“Bigger than you?” Eleanor arched a brow. “That’s very large indeed.”
“Like a horse,” Milo confirmed. “His name is Meatball.”
Charlotte snorted into her wine.
“Children’s names for pets have not improved since your generation,” Eleanor told her.
“You named a Scottish terrier ‘Sir Winston Barkhill,’” Charlotte reminded her.
“A classic,” Eleanor said.
Milo giggled.
As dinner went on, the conversation drifted, meandering in the way only a three-year-old could dictate.
He told Eleanor about the park. About the time he’d fallen off the slide and “didn’t even cry.” About Lina’s cooking (“She makes noodles. And cake. Mommy burns toast.”).
“Betrayal,” Charlotte muttered.
“Out of the mouths of babes,” Eleanor said, but there was a warmth there that took the sting away.
At one point, Milo picked up his fork with a solemn expression.
“Grandma?” he said.
“Yes?” she replied.
“Do you have a mommy?” he asked.
Charlotte froze.
Eleanor’s fork paused halfway to her mouth.
“I did,” she said after a moment. “A long time ago.”
“Where is she?” Milo asked.
“She died,” Eleanor said simply. “Before your mother was born.”
“That’s sad,” Milo said, brow furrowing.
“Yes,” Eleanor said. “It was.”
“My fish died,” he offered. “Fritz. He flushed down the toilet. Mommy said he went to the ocean.”
Charlotte choked on her water.
“I was…oversimplifying the concept of death,” she sputtered.
Eleanor’s lips curved.
“I’m sure Fritz appreciates the promotion,” she said.
“Was your mommy nice?” Milo asked.
Eleanor’s expression flickered.
“Yes,” she said softly. “She was very nice. She was…kind.”
“Like Lina,” he said.
A muscle jumped in Eleanor’s jaw.
“Yes,” she said. “Like Lina.”
“Is Mommy kind?” he asked.
“Most of the time,” Eleanor said dryly.
“Hey,” Charlotte protested.
Milo popped a pea in his mouth.
“Are you kind?” he asked Eleanor.
Charlotte held her breath.
Her mother looked…taken aback.
“I try to be,” she said finally.
“She…has her own version,” Charlotte added.
Milo considered this, then nodded.
“You gave me car,” he said. “That was kind.”
Something in Eleanor’s face crumpled, just for a second.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I suppose it was.”
After dinner, Milo discovered the small collection of hotel miniatures on a shelf. Little replicas of classic Reid properties in silver and glass.
“This is London,” Eleanor told him, pointing. “This is Paris. This one is Tokyo.”
“Big,” he breathed reverently.
“Very big,” she agreed.
Charlotte watched them from the sofa, her heart a strange mix of full and aching.
This was what she’d wanted.
Connection. Family.
It was…possible.
Different from the fantasy she’d had as a lonely teenager, dreaming of a mother who would braid her hair and take her for ice cream.
But something.
“Time to go, bug,” she said when the clock edged past eight. “Say thank you to Grandma.”
“Thank you, Grandma,” he chirped dutifully. “For chicken. And peas. And car.”
“You’re welcome,” Eleanor said. “You may come again. If your schedule allows.”
He nodded gravely, as if he had a packed calendar.
“Can I bring my dino next time?” he asked.
“You may bring…one toy,” she decreed. “Not the entire zoo.”
He seemed to accept these terms.
He ran over and threw his arms around her waist in a quick, impulsive hug.
Eleanor stiffened.
Then, slowly, she lowered a hand to rest, just briefly, on his back.
“Good night,” she said gruffly.
“‘Night,” he mumbled into her expensive suit.
He pulled away and scampered back to Charlotte, grabbing her hand.
“Come on, Mommy,” he said. “It’s dark.”
“We’re going,” she said.
At the door, she turned.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Eleanor’s expression shuttered again.
“Don’t read too much into this,” she said. “I asked to see my grandson. Not to…bond over your choices.”
The bubble popped.
Of course.
“I know,” Charlotte said. “Regardless…thank you.”
Eleanor looked at Milo.
“Drive safe,” she said.
“We’re taking the elevator,” Charlotte pointed out.
“It was a figure of speech,” Eleanor snapped.
Perhaps sensing tension, Milo tugged on Charlotte’s hand. “Let’s go,” he whispered. “Before Grandma gets grumpy.”
Eleanor’s mouth dropped open.
Charlotte bit her lip, fighting a laugh.
“Out,” Eleanor said, pointing at the door. “Now.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Charlotte said, somehow managing not to salute.
In the elevator, Milo leaned against her leg.
“I like Grandma,” he said.
Her heart squeezed.
“Yeah?” she asked.
“She’s funny,” he said. “Like Lina. But…older.”
“Don’t tell her that,” Charlotte murmured.
He looked up at her.
“Mommy?” he said.
“Yes?”
“Where’s my daddy?”
The world tilted.
Her hand tightened on the rail.
He’d asked before. Little-kid curious questions. “Why don’t I have a daddy like Sammy?” She’d always deflected gently. “You have lots of people who love you,” she’d say. “Mommy. Lina. Uncle Henry. You’re not missing anything.”
Tonight, the way he asked felt…different.
Less casual. More pointed.
She swallowed.
“What do you mean, bug?” she asked, buying time.
“Sammy has a daddy,” he said. “He came to school. He has beard.” He stroked his own face. “He read a book. He pick up Sammy.”
“Okay,” she said slowly.
“Do I have a daddy?” he asked.
Her throat burned.
“You…” She took a breath. “Every kid has a…a father. That’s how kids get made. Science.” She was rambling. “But not all kids live with…both parents.”
“Where’s mine?” he asked again.
Her vision blurred.
“In another city,” she said finally. “He…doesn’t live with us.”
“Why?” Milo asked.
Because I didn’t tell him you exist.
Because I was scared.
Because your grandmother threatened to destroy me.
Because I didn’t know how.
“It’s…complicated,” she said. “Grown-up stuff. But you know what?”
“What?” he asked.
“You have so many people who love you,” she said. “Me. Lina. Uncle Henry. Grandma. You are *not* missing love. Okay?”
He processed this, brow furrowing.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “But…can I have a daddy later?”
Her heart shattered.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “Maybe. Someday. We’ll see.”
He nodded, apparently satisfied for now.
He went back to humming, making his dinosaur dance on the elevator panel.
Charlotte stared at the numbers blinking down.
The fault line inside her widened.
Later that night, after Milo was asleep, she stood at the kitchen counter, a glass of wine untouched in front of her.
Her phone buzzed.
A text.
*Unknown Number (New York).*
> How was dinner?
Her heart stuttered.
She hadn’t given Dominic the schedule. Had she?
Then she remembered.
Natalie. The social media team. The fact that he had a thousand ways to know what happened in her building.
She typed:
> Predictably tense. Surprisingly…not terrible.
> Mothers are complicated.
> Understatement.
> Sons too, I’m told.
Her fingers trembled.
She answered before she could stop herself.
> You don’t know the half of it.
Three dots.
Then:
> I’d like to.
She stared.
It would be so easy.
To type: *His name is Milo.*
To send a photo.
To shatter everything.
Her phone rang.
His name on the screen.
Her heart climbed into her throat.
She hesitated.
Then, hand shaking, she answered.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hey.” His voice was rougher than usual. “Too late?”
She glanced at the clock.
“Depends what you want,” she said, then immediately wished she could claw the words back.
His breath hitched almost imperceptibly.
“Conversation,” he said. “For now.”
For now.
Dangerous.
“I’m tired,” she said. “It’s been a long day.”
“I’ll be quick,” he said. “I just…wanted to say… You did the right thing. With the deal.”
She blinked.
“That’s…surprisingly supportive,” she said.
“I’m capable of being more than a shark, you know,” he said.
“I saw your kids’ lounge,” she said. “I’m aware.”
He chuckled softly.
Silence hummed.
“Was he there?” he asked quietly.
She closed her eyes.
“Yes,” she said. “He was.”
Another breath, just a little too sharp.
“Did she…?” He trailed off.
“Try to brand him?” she supplied. “Tattoo ‘Reid’ on his forehead?”
He huffed a laugh.
“No,” she said. “She…tried. In her way. It was…awkward. But not as bad as I feared.”
“I’m glad,” he said.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because…” He hesitated. “Because maybe it means she’s not going to use him as a pawn. At least, not the way she could.”
“Optimistic,” she murmured.
“I’m trying a new thing,” he said. “It tastes weird.”
A small smile tugged at her lips.
“He asked about his father,” she blurted.
Silence.
“I see,” he said softly.
“I told him he…doesn’t live with us,” she went on. “That it’s complicated. That he has lots of people who love him. I…didn’t know what else to say.”
“You shouldn’t have to do that alone,” he said, voice rough.
Her eyes stung.
“I’m not *asking*,” she said quickly. “I’m just…telling you. Because I have no one else I can say this to who…understands the specific flavor of this insanity.”
“Your friend,” he said. “Mila. Your uncle.”
“They…don’t know *you*,” she said. “Not like…”
She stopped.
Not like you know what it’s like to have a father who didn’t show up, she meant.
But she couldn’t say that without revealing she knew.
He let the half-sentence hang.
“Charlotte,” he said.
Her name in his mouth did things to her heart she did not want analyzed.
“Yes,” she said.
“I’m not going to stay in the dark willingly,” he said quietly. “About him.”
Her breath caught.
“I know,” she whispered.
“If he’s mine,” he went on.
She swallowed.
“If,” she echoed faintly.
“If he’s mine,” he said again, firmer now, “I will be in his life. One way or another.”
Fear and…something else…coiled in her.
“What does that mean?” she whispered.
“It means,” he said, “I’m giving you a chance to tell me the truth yourself. Before I find it another way. Before lawyers. Before press. Before it gets…uglier than it needs to.”
Her knees went weak.
“I promised her,” she said hoarsely. “She’ll…destroy me.”
“You’re stronger than you think,” he said. “And she can’t fire you from being his mother.”
“She can take everything else,” she said. “The company. Aspen. My…future.”
“She can’t take *you*,” he said. “And she can’t give him what I can.”
Anger flared.
“Oh?” she snapped. “What’s that? A trust fund? A front-row seat at ‘Ask Dom Anything’ on your rooftop bar?”
“A father who shows up,” he said quietly.
Her breath left her in a rush.
Silence crackled.
“I’m not my father,” he said. “I won’t be him. I…can’t.”
Tears spilled over.
“I’m so tired,” she whispered. “Of being the only one holding this. Of feeling like any move I make hurts someone.”
“Whatever you do will hurt,” he said gently. “There’s no clean path. But…he exists, Charlotte. That’s not nothing. That’s…everything.”
Her throat closed.
“I need time,” she said.
“How much?” he asked.
She thought of her uncle’s words. Of her mother’s conditions. Of Milo’s big, earnest eyes.
“Days,” she said. “Not weeks. I… I’ll figure it out.”
“I’ll give you…a week,” he said after a moment. “Then I…start looking myself.”
A chill ran through her.
He could. He had resources. Lawyers. Investigators.
If he dug…
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“A week,” she repeated. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I don’t…want to hurt you.”
“If you did, you’d be in the wrong line of work,” she said.
He huffed a mirthless laugh.
“Good night, Charlotte,” he said.
“Good night,” she whispered.
She hung up and pressed the phone to her chest.
Her heart pounded.
Seven days.
Seven days until everything changed.
Or until she chose not to change it and he did it for her.
Either way, the slow burn she’d been trying to smother was about to become an inferno.
And somewhere, under the city’s humming skin, lines were being drawn—not just on term sheets, but through blood and bone.
She turned off the kitchen light and walked down the hall, pausing at Milo’s door.
He lay sprawled on his back, arms flung wide, mouth slightly open, eyelashes dark crescents on his cheeks.
She brushed a kiss across his forehead.
“I’m going to fix this,” she whispered.
He didn’t stir.
Her phone buzzed again in her hand.
A final text from Dominic.
> Whatever happens, remember: this started with *us.* Not them. Not the board. Not the press. Us.
She stared at the words until they blurred.
Then she typed back, fingers shaking.
> That’s what scares me.
She hit send.
Somewhere across the city, in a glass tower with his name on it, Dominic read her message and smiled grimly.
Because he was scared too.
And for the first time in a very long time, he was about to walk into a negotiation where the thing on the table wasn’t money, or power, or prestige.
It was his heart.
And the tiny, storm-eyed boy who had no idea he held it already.