Page 105 of At First Flight
“Now he’s going to try to prove I’m unstable. That I walked away from the legacy. That I’m playing house in the middle of nowhere with a nanny and two kids I barely know how to raise.”
Her head snaps toward me. “Is that what you think this is? Playing house?”
“No.” My voice is rough. “But that’s how he’ll spin it. He’ll look at you and see an easy target. A woman who moved in too fast, who doesn’t have a permanent job, who—”
“Who loves your kids,” she cuts in, eyes flaring. “Who puts them first every single day. Who walked away from a life she thought she wanted because it didn’t feel like home anymore. You think I don’t know what this is?”
I stare at her, stunned by the fire in her voice.
“You think I don’t know what it means to be accused of being temporary?” she continues. “Because that’s what people say about women who put their career first. We’re flings. Fill-ins. The ones who show up in the middle of a storm and leave once the sky clears.”
“You’re not a fill-in,” I say, stepping closer.
Her voice softens. “I don’t want to be. But I need you to believe that I won’t run if you don’t push me.”
I reach for her hand, curling my fingers around hers. “I don’t want to push you. I just… I’m afraid of asking too much.”
“Then don’t ask,” she says. “Just let me stay.”
It’s not a promise. Not yet. But it’s a beginning.
And it’s enough to get me through the next few hours, which is good.
Because when the black SUV pulls up the driveway, I know exactly who’s behind the wheel. He doesn’t bother knocking. He never has. I'm pretty sure he’d tear down the door if it were locked.
He walks in like he owns the damn air we’re breathing. Same as always.
The silver in his hair is perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, like time itself wouldn’t dare muss him up. He’s tall and lean, but imposing in that sharp-edged way that makes people stand straighter when he enters a room. His bespoke suit fits like a second skin, every seam and stitch a reminder that his money doesn’t just talk—it sneers. Arrogance drips off him in waves, subtle but suffocating.
He doesn’t need to speak to make a point. His posture alone says it all. Chin slightly lifted, shoulders pulled back, eyes skating across the room like everything in it is beneath him.
Including me. Always me.
“I got your attorney’s message about serving you,” he says without preamble.
I square my shoulders, planting myself between him and the living room. “Then why are you here?”
He glances around, taking in the house details with thinly veiled disgust. “What I know is that you’re hiding behind old barns and small-town clichés. That this”—he gestures broadly, like the house offends him—“isn’t the life you were built for.”
“I built this life,” I bite back. “Every piece of it.”
He scoffs. “And now you’re dragging your sister’s children through the mud of your rebellion.”
That word sets me off—rebellion. Like choosing love over control is some kind of adolescent phase. As if my sister hadn’t known what she was doing. Despite our ups and downs my sister knew how much I loved her kids. The same could not be said for how she felt about our parents. Most of the time Genonly pretended when she wanted something from them that I wouldn’t give her.
Lila appears behind me, arms crossed, silent but steady.
He notices her and smiles like a snake. “And there she is. The nanny.”
“She’s not the nanny,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Oh?” He tilts his head. “Then what is she?”
“I’m the woman who watches your son show up for those children every day,” Lila says calmly. “And I’m not going to stand by while you try to paint him as anything less than the father he’s become.”
His eyes narrow. “You have no say in this.”
“Then maybe I’m just here to watch you lose,” she replies.
