Chapter 3 - THE TEST ETHAN COULDN'T ESCAPE
Victoria stared at her own name for less than a second before grabbing her coat.
“This is absurd.”
Ethan moved between her and the door.
“Sit down.”
“You don’t order me around.”
“No. But if you walk out now, don’t expect to walk back into my house.”
Her expression flickered.
“We’re engaged.”
“Then give me a reason to trust you.”
“I don’t answer interrogations designed by your father and a woman who abandoned you.”
I stood.
“Leave me out of whatever you’re trying to salvage.”
Victoria turned on me.
“You have been in this from the moment you walked into that restaurant with him.”
She pointed at Noah.
My body went cold.
Ethan stepped in front of her.
“Do not point at the child.”
She stared at him.
Something shifted between them.
Maybe she realized that even before a DNA test, Ethan had crossed a line he wouldn’t cross back over.
Victoria lowered her hand.
“Fine.”
She picked up her purse.
“My attorney will speak to yours.”
Then she left.
Ethan didn’t stop her.
For several minutes afterward, none of us said much.
Richard gathered the documents.
Noah climbed onto a chair and asked if he could keep the chef’s hat.
I said yes.
He asked Ethan if he liked dinosaurs.
Ethan looked startled.
“Uh… yes.”
Noah narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“What’s your favorite?”
Ethan glanced helplessly at me.
I almost laughed.
“Triceratops,” he said.
Noah considered this.
“Okay.”
Apparently, Ethan had passed the first test.
The second would not be as simple.
The next morning, Richard arranged a private DNA test at a medical office downtown.
I hated every second of it.
Not because I feared the result.
Because I knew exactly what it would be.
But seeing Noah sitting in a chair while a nurse swabbed the inside of his cheek made something ugly twist in my chest.
Ethan stood near the window.
When it was his turn, he offered no argument.
Afterward, Noah was rewarded with apple juice and crackers.
“That wasn’t even a real test,” he complained.
“What did you expect?” I asked.
“Math.”
Ethan laughed.
It was the first genuine laugh I had heard from him.
Noah looked delighted that he had caused it.
I hated that I noticed.
I hated more that the sound still felt familiar.
Outside the clinic, Ethan stopped me.
“Claire.”
Richard took Noah ahead toward the waiting car.
I turned.
Ethan shoved his hands into his coat pockets.
The billionaire disappeared for a moment.
The man from seven years ago stood in front of me.
“If he’s mine—”
“He is.”
“When the result comes back—”
“It won’t erase what happened.”
“I know.”
“No, Ethan. I don’t think you do.”
His face tightened.
“You lost seven years because someone lied to you. I’m sorry for that. Truly. But Noah lost seven years too, and he doesn’t understand why.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I know.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“That is not my job to figure out.”
I walked away.
By noon, my phone started ringing.
At first, I thought it was the bakery.
Then I saw the Chicago Tribune number.
I ignored it.
A second reporter called.
Then a third.
By one o’clock, my boss called.
“Claire, there are cameras outside.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“Someone leaked a story.”
I opened the first news alert.
BLACKWOOD BILLIONAIRE TARGETED BY FORMER GIRLFRIEND CLAIMING SECRET HEIR.
A photograph of me leaving the restaurant appeared beneath the headline.
Another site called me a “mystery ex.”
One claimed I had “recently reentered Blackwood’s orbit following financial hardship.”
Financial hardship.
As if struggling to pay rent made me a criminal.
Then social media found me.
My bakery photograph.
My old apartment listing.
Even pictures from Noah’s elementary school fundraiser.
That was when fear replaced anger.
I called Ethan.
He answered immediately.
“I’m already handling it.”
“My son’s school is being named.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Victoria’s publicist released a statement forty minutes ago.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
“What did she say?”
“That my family is being targeted through a paternity claim that has not been verified.”
“I’m going to kill her.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You have no idea how comforting that is.”
Despite everything, Ethan almost laughed.
Then his voice hardened.
“I have security going to Noah’s school.”
“No.”
“Claire—”
“I don’t want men in black SUVs terrifying him.”
“They’ll be discreet.”
“I said no.”
He went quiet.
Then, surprisingly, he said, “Okay. Tell me what would make you comfortable.”
That stopped me.
The old Ethan had always been stubborn.
The new Ethan commanded thousands of employees.
Yet he had asked.
“One plainclothes officer near the front office.”
“Done.”
“And nobody follows us home.”
“Done.”
“And Ethan?”
“Yes?”
“Shut down the story without using Noah as proof of anything.”
There was a pause.
Then he said, “I understand.”
Twenty minutes later, Blackwood Industries released a three-sentence statement.
Mr. Blackwood will not comment on a minor child’s private family matters. Any publication identifying or photographing the child without consent will face immediate legal action. No allegations regarding the child or his mother have been authorized by Ethan Blackwood.
The coverage changed almost instantly.
Not disappeared.
But changed.
For the first time, Ethan had protected us publicly.
That evening, he appeared at the bakery.
I nearly threw a tray at him.
“You said nobody would follow me.”
“I came alone.”
“You’re the most recognizable businessman in Chicago.”
“I wore a hat.”
I stared at the expensive black baseball cap on his head.
“That is your disguise?”
“It worked in the parking garage.”
“It did not work on Mrs. Alvarez. She texted me three minutes ago asking why ‘that handsome angry billionaire from television’ is buying bread.”
His mouth twitched.
Then Noah came through the kitchen doors.
“Triceratops!”
Ethan looked offended.
“My name is Ethan.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you call me Triceratops?”
“Because that’s your favorite.”
There was apparently no defense against six-year-old logic.
For the next hour, Ethan sat at a small bakery table while Noah colored dinosaurs.
He did not discuss the DNA test.
He didn’t ask Noah to call him anything.
He simply listened.
When Noah explained that his teacher said birds were technically dinosaurs, Ethan acted appropriately shocked.
When Noah spilled chocolate milk, Ethan cleaned it up.
When Noah asked whether rich people ate normal cereal, Ethan admitted that he ate Frosted Flakes.
That fact fascinated Noah.
It terrified me.
Because I could see how easily my son might love him.
The DNA results arrived the following afternoon.
Richard came to my apartment.
Ethan arrived ten minutes later.
No lawyers.
No assistants.
No Victoria.
The envelope sat on my kitchen table.
“I already know what it says,” I said.
Ethan nodded.
“So do I.”
“Then why are your hands shaking?”
He looked down.
They were.
Richard opened the envelope.
The probability of paternity was greater than 99.999 percent.
Noah was Ethan Blackwood’s biological son.
Ethan closed his eyes.
He sat down.
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Then he whispered, “I missed his birth.”
“Yes.”
“His first word.”
“Yes.”
“First steps.”
“Yes.”
His eyes became wet.
“You did all of it alone.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
I had dreamed about hearing those words.
They did not fix anything.
But they mattered.
Before I could answer, Richard’s phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He stood and walked toward the window.
“Send it to me now.”
A minute later, an email appeared.
Richard opened the attachment.
It was an archived report from Ethan’s former cellular provider.
Seven years earlier, someone had repeatedly accessed Ethan’s corporate phone account and added my number to a permanent block list.
Richard enlarged the login information.
The access had come from a residential IP address.
Ethan recognized it first.
“No.”
Richard looked grim.
I stepped closer.
The address belonged to the Hale family estate in Lake Forest.
Ethan stared at it.
Then Richard’s phone rang again.
Unknown number.
He answered.
No one spoke at first.
Then his face changed.
“Who is this?”
He listened.
His knuckles whitened around the phone.
“What did you say?”
The call ended.
“Dad?”
Richard looked at Noah, who was playing in the next room.
Then he looked at me.
“What?”
I asked.
Richard’s voice dropped.
“A man said Ethan needs to stop looking into the past.”
My stomach tightened.
“And?”
Richard hesitated.
“Or the next thing he loses won’t be seven years.”
May you like
His eyes moved toward Noah.
“It’ll be his son.”
