“Are you looking at the photograph of your son?” Patricia Holloway asked.
I stared at the boy standing between her and Claire outside the courthouse.
His dark hair fell over his forehead in the same stubborn way mine had at that age.
His eyes were gray, not blue or green, but the strange pale gray that had appeared in every Moretti family portrait for three generations.
My mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Patricia did not fill the silence for me.
Behind her, I heard paper move and a chair scrape across the floor.
“How old is he?” I finally asked.
“Five.”
The number struck harder than the divorce decree.
Five years ago, Claire had spent almost six months away from the penthouse.
She told me she was overseeing renovations at Blue Harbor and helping an aunt recover from surgery.
I had accepted both explanations without asking for an address.
I had been traveling constantly that year.
Chicago.
London.
Geneva.
Miami.
Most of those trips were necessary.
Some were not.
Vanessa had been with me on three of them.
“What is his name?”
“Elias Whitman.”
Not Moretti.
“Is he mine?”
Patricia’s voice hardened.
“A court-approved paternity test confirmed that you are his biological father.”
My knees weakened.
I sat behind my desk, still holding the photograph.
“Put Claire on the phone.”
“No.”
“She hid my son from me.”
“And you will have the opportunity to raise that concern through counsel.
You will not use it as an excuse to frighten her.”
Anger rushed in because anger was easier than understanding what I had done.
“I have rights.”
“Yes,” Patricia said.
“You also have a documented history.
The judge will consider both.”
“What history?”
There was another pause.
Then she began listing dates.
The anniversary dinner I failed to attend.
The medical appointment Claire asked me to join.
The certified envelope delivered to my office and signed for by my assistant.
The ultrasound folder placed on my desk beneath a contract from Chicago.
I remembered the folder.
It had been pale blue, with Claire’s handwriting on the front.
Please open this before tonight.
I had been late for a flight.
I signed the contract lying on top of it, shoved the entire stack toward my assistant and said, “Handle everything that isn’t urgent.”
The folder was returned to Claire unopened.
“What was inside?” I asked, though I already knew.
“An ultrasound image and a letter telling you that she was pregnant.”
I lowered my head.
That night, Claire had waited at a restaurant for two hours.
