Z

Ethan Callahan had faced federal investigators, rival crime bosses, corrupt judges, and armed men without blinking.

But apparently, asking a woman to marry him properly was terrifying.

He sat up in bed while Sophie crawled across his chest and tried to steal the velvet ring box from my hand.

“I did ask.”

“No,” I said. “You left a note.”

“It contained a question.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“You answered it.”

“I said no.”

His jaw tightened.

“You kissed me immediately afterward.”

“That was encouragement.”

“That was confusing.”

I smiled.

“Welcome to relationships.”

Sophie slapped Ethan’s cheek with one tiny hand.

He looked at her.

“Your mother is difficult.”

“She has excellent judgment.”

“Debatable.”

I tossed a pillow at him.

For the first time in what felt like years, life was normal enough for stupid arguments.

Victor Sloane was in federal custody.

Robert Reed was waiting for sentencing.

Dad’s letters were locked safely inside Ethan’s study.

Elena had moved into an apartment near Lincoln Park and started working with a victims’ advocacy organization.

And Ethan—

Ethan was trying to become someone he had never been taught how to be.

A man who went home at night.

A man who answered questions instead of issuing orders.

A man who changed diapers.

Badly.

“You put it on backward,” I told him later that morning.

“A diaper does not have a backward.”

“It absolutely does.”

Sophie kicked happily while Ethan stared at the tabs like they were part of a bomb.

“I negotiate commercial acquisitions worth hundreds of millions.”

“And yet Velcro defeated you.”

He looked offended.

Then the doorbell rang.

Ethan’s expression changed instantly.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that I noticed.

He checked his phone.

“No one was scheduled.”

That old alertness returned to him.

The one I had first seen on the airplane.

He walked toward the entryway.

Two security men appeared from the hallway before he reached the door.

I picked Sophie up.

A moment later, one of the guards returned carrying a white envelope.

“No return address.”

Ethan took it.

“Scanned?”

“Yes.”

He opened it.

A newspaper clipping slid onto the counter.

It was a photograph of Ethan, Sophie, and me leaving a restaurant three nights earlier.

Someone had circled Sophie’s face in red ink.

My blood went cold.

Beneath the photograph was one sentence.

SHE ISN’T YOURS, CALLAHAN.

Ethan went completely still.

“Who sent it?” I whispered.

“We’ll find out.”

I hated that answer.

It had become part of my life.

We’ll find out.

Stay here.

You’re safe.

Someone is looking into it.

Words people used when danger had already entered the room.

Then my phone rang.

Unknown California number.

I almost ignored it.

Something stopped me.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Then a man spoke.

“Rachel.”

Every muscle in my body locked.

I knew that voice.

I had once loved that voice.

I had once spent nights waiting to hear keys in an apartment door because that voice belonged to the man I believed would become my husband.

“Carlos.”

Ethan’s head turned toward me.

Carlos Vega.

Sophie’s father.

The man who left eighteen days after she was born.

The man who sent exactly three text messages in the six months after that.

Sorry.

I can’t do this.

Please don’t look for me.

I had stopped looking.

Apparently, he had not stopped looking at me.

“How did you get this number?” I asked.

“Same number you always had.”

“What do you want?”

A pause.

Then:

“I want to see my daughter.”

My arms tightened around Sophie.

“No.”

“Rachel.”

“You disappeared.”

“I made a mistake.”

“A mistake is forgetting an anniversary. You abandoned your newborn.”

“I was scared.”

“So was I.”

“I wasn’t ready.”

“You think I was?”

Ethan was watching me.

Not interfering.

That mattered.

Old Ethan would probably have taken the phone.

This Ethan waited.

Carlos exhaled.

“I saw the news.”

Of course.

That explained everything.

My photograph had been everywhere after the Callahan corruption investigation.

Articles called me Ethan’s mystery woman.

Some called me his girlfriend.

Others called me a witness.

One tabloid called me Chicago’s new queen.

I hated that one most.

“You saw money,” I said.

“That’s not fair.”

“You didn’t call when Sophie had pneumonia.”

Silence.

“You didn’t call on Christmas.”

Nothing.

“You didn’t call on her first birthday.”

“She just turned one.”

“And you knew that because you read it somewhere.”

His silence answered for him.

Then his voice hardened.

“I’m still her father.”

“Biologically.”

“That counts.”

“It counted when I was begging you to stay.”

Ethan looked away.

Giving me privacy inside his own kitchen.

Carlos continued.

“I’ve already talked to a lawyer.”

My stomach dropped.

“What?”

“I have rights.”

“You gave them up.”

“I never signed anything.”

That part was true.

Carlos had never formally terminated parental rights.

His name was on Sophie’s birth certificate.

“I want visitation.”

“No.”

“And if you refuse, I’ll ask for custody.”

I laughed.

Actually laughed.

It came out ugly.

“You left her before she could hold her own head up.”

“And now you have her living with a crime boss.”

My laughter stopped.

Carlos had found the one sentence designed to hurt me.

“The press says Callahan runs half the criminal activity in Chicago.”

“That press is six months behind.”

“You think a judge cares?”

I glanced at Ethan.

He had heard every word.

His face revealed nothing.

Carlos lowered his voice.

“You chose a dangerous man, Rachel.”

“You don’t get to criticize who stayed after you left.”

“I’ll see you in court.”

The call ended.

I remained frozen.

Then Ethan said quietly, “He’s right about one thing.”

I turned.

“If you agree with him right now, I swear to God—”

“A judge may care who I am.”

I stared.

“So?”

“So you and Sophie should move out.”

It hurt faster than I expected.

“What?”

“Temporarily.”

“You think I’m going to let Carlos scare me out of here?”

“No.”

“You just told me to leave.”

“I’m telling you I won’t give him ammunition.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Deciding.”

His jaw flexed.

“Rachel, this isn’t pride. It’s custody law.”

“And Sophie is my child.”

“Yes.”

“Then stop behaving like she’s a case file you can protect by moving pieces around.”

He flinched.

Good.

I wanted him to.

Then Ethan stepped closer.

“I love her.”

The anger vanished from my lungs.

He looked at Sophie.

Then me.

“I know she isn’t mine.”

His voice was low.

“I have never confused that.”

Something broke inside my chest.

“But I love her.”

I couldn’t speak.

“And I love you.”

That was the first time he had said it.

No grand restaurant.

No expensive ring.

No perfect moment.

Just a threatening envelope on the counter and my ex-boyfriend preparing for war.

Ethan continued.

“That means I have to care what happens to both of you more than I care whether you sleep in my house tonight.”

Tears burned my eyes.

“You have terrible timing.”

“I’m aware.”

“You couldn’t have said that yesterday?”

“I attempted a proposal.”

“On a note.”

“We’re back to that?”

Despite everything, I laughed.

He smiled faintly.

Then one of his guards entered.

“Boss.”

Ethan turned.

“We traced the envelope.”

“To Carlos?”

“No.”

The guard placed a photograph on the counter.

A security image.

Carlos stood outside a motel near O’Hare.

Beside him was another man.

Older.

Gray hair.

Thin face.

I didn’t recognize him.

Ethan did.

His expression became ice.

“Who is that?” I asked.

He didn’t answer immediately.

“Ethan.”

Finally, he looked at me.

“His name is Malcolm Pierce.”

“So?”

“He worked for Robert Reed.”

My stomach dropped.

“And Carlos?”

Ethan’s eyes returned to the photograph.

“Apparently your ex didn’t come back to Chicago alone.”