Page 30 of Symphony of Salvation

“I assume the news of Chloé’s pregnancy didn’t go over well.”

“It did not. I was not careless about… prevention. When we first hooked up, she told me she was infertile, so we never used protection.”

“She lied? Or was the pregnancy a surprise to her too?”

“No, she lied. She later shared that she’d wanted a baby for a long time, preferably with someone genetically predisposed to musical genius.”

“You’re bragging again.”

He didn’t smile like I hoped but pushed the empty glass aside. “Before she shared that rather devastating piece of information, I informed her I wasn’t ready to be a father. I told her I didn’t love her and didn’t want to get married. I said we should consider adoption or abortion.” He cringed. “I’m terrible for saying that, aren’t I?”

“No. You were unprepared for that kind of news. It wasn’t the life trajectory you envisioned.”

“Exactly. My career was only just beginning to blossom. You get it.”

“Chloé didn’t?”

“Chloé was not acting rationally or agreeably. Which, in retrospect, isn’t shocking since her method of deception was not entirely ethical. She said she didn’t want marriage, a relationship, or even my help. That’s when she explained about her duplicity. She encouraged me to carry on with life as though the pregnancy had never happened. She’d only called because she felt obliged to inform me.”

“How noble after setting a trap.”

August met my gaze. “Could you have walked away and ignored a child you’d conceived, regardless of circumstances or your feelings?”

“Probably not.”

He blew out his cheeks and threaded fingers through his shock of dark hair. “I told her I didn’t want custody. She was happy about that. But I said I wanted to know my child. I wanted to visit, spend holidays together, celebrate birthdays, and have a voice in their development. I would allow Chloé full parental rights, but I wanted to be part of any major decisions in the child’s life. Those were my terms, and she agreed.”

A painful pause followed. Sensing August needed it, I pushed my nearly empty glass of wine across the table. He took it gratefully and drained the final mouthful. His eyelids sat at half-mast when he said, “Constance was diagnosed with cancer at age seven. Everything changed.”

August shared how he and Chloé had tried to become a proper family for Constance’s sake. Chloé had needed the support and despite his infrequent visits and adamancy about parenthood, August had grown fond of his daughter and wanted to do everything he could to make her life easier.

From there, the story disintegrated. August lost track of the timeline, and like a musician hitting a repeat bar, he detoured back to parts of the tale he’d already told, getting stuck in a drunken, confused loop.

I reached out a hand and laid it gently on his, halting the rambling. “How about I order you an Uber?” It was encroaching on two in the morning, and I was afraid August would pass out at my kitchen table if I didn’t do something soon.

“I don’t want you to hate me,” he slurred as I helped him to the door.

“I don’t. You’re a show-off, though.”

He chuckled. “I don’t mean to be.”

He struggled into his sweater, and when he got an arm caught, I helped. Leaning against the wall as though holding the house up, August’s hooded gaze took me in. “I suppose I’ve shatteredthe illusion, haven’t I? The highly respectableMaestro”—said with sarcastic emphasis—“is nothing but a drunken sop.”

I smirked. “You have a lot of British slang.”

“Spent a good many years in London. Picked up a thing or two.”

“For the record, shattering the illusion was a good thing.”

“You don’t like me.”

“You’re not so bad.”

He nodded, his gaze slipping south and landing on my mouth. Again. I stilled. We were several feet apart and both intoxicated—him more than me since he’d drunk two glasses for every one I’d consumed—but I saw what I saw.Interest. Even when August jerked his attention to the front window when a car pulled up, he couldn’t erase the lust swimming in his eyes.

“That’s my ride.”

“Get some sleep.”

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