Chapter 2 - THE BOY WHO REFUSED TO CALL HIM DAD
“Mom, why does that man look like me?”
Noah’s innocent question cut through the studio more sharply than anything Adrian Blackwood could have said.
I tightened my grip around my son’s hand.
“Sometimes people look alike, sweetheart.”
Noah considered that.
“Even their eyebrows?”
A few people nearby laughed nervously.
Adrian didn’t.
He stood motionless beneath the bright studio lights, staring at the little boy who had inherited his dark eyes, straight nose, and serious expression.
Then he started walking toward us.
Every instinct I had screamed at me to run.
Six years ago, I had loved that man enough to imagine growing old beside him.
Now I was terrified of what he might do with the truth.
“Claire.”
His voice was quieter than I remembered.
“Adrian.”
He stopped three feet away.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then his eyes returned to Noah.
“How old are you?”
Noah looked at me before answering.
“Five.”
“When’s your birthday?”
“November fourteenth.”
Adrian’s expression changed.
I knew exactly what he was calculating.
November.
Five years ago.
The dates fit perfectly.
He swallowed.
“And your name?”
“Noah Bennett.”
Adrian crouched until they were almost eye level.
“I’m Adrian.”
Noah studied him with the same careful expression that had made his flea-market video famous.
“I know.”
Adrian blinked.
“You do?”
“You’re on the big sign outside.”
Noah pointed toward the enormous Blackwood Entertainment logo hanging above the studio entrance.
“My mom says people on signs aren't always important.”
A production assistant coughed to hide a laugh.
Adrian looked up at me.
For the first time, I saw something besides shock in his eyes.
Hurt.
But I had no room in my heart to comfort him.
“Claire,” he said, standing, “we need to talk.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“Please.”
“Not here. Not in front of my son.”
The director approached, looking as though he might faint.
“Mr. Blackwood, we can clear the studio.”
“That won't be necessary,” I said.
Adrian turned toward him.
“Turn off the cameras.”
The director hesitated.
“We're recording behind-the-scenes material for—”
“Turn them off.”
Within seconds, the red recording lights disappeared.
Or so I thought.
Adrian gestured toward a small conference room beyond the set.
“Five minutes.”
I looked at Noah.
“Sweetheart, stay with Aunt Rachel.”
Rachel Morris was my oldest friend and the show's family liaison. She knew more about my past than anyone else alive.
Noah frowned.
“Are you mad at him?”
I knelt.
“I'm not mad at you. That's what matters.”
He touched my cheek.
“Okay.”
Rachel took his hand.
Adrian watched that simple exchange with an expression I couldn't read.
Then I followed him into the conference room.
The moment the door closed, his composure broke.
“Is he mine?”
No greeting.
No apology.
Just the question I had feared for five years.
I folded my arms.
“You don't get to walk into his life and demand answers.”
“Claire.”
“You made certain I couldn't work. You allowed people to turn me into a monster. You let your lawyers threaten me when I tried to defend myself.”
His face hardened.
“I never ordered anyone to threaten you.”
I laughed.
It was a terrible sound.
“That's convenient.”
“I mean it.”
“Then you didn't know what was happening inside your own company.”
He looked away.
That tiny movement told me something.
He knew more than he wanted to admit.
“Is Noah my son?” he repeated.
I stared at the man who had once promised to protect me.
“Yes.”
The room went silent.
Adrian gripped the back of a chair.
For several seconds, he seemed unable to breathe.
Then he whispered, “I have a son.”
I hated how much those four words hurt.
Not because they were cruel.
Because they were spoken with wonder.
The wonder Noah had deserved from his father five years earlier.
“You have a biological son,” I corrected. “You haven't earned anything beyond that.”
Adrian looked at me.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
I opened my purse.
Inside was the same small leather wallet I'd carried for years.
I removed a folded ultrasound photograph, its edges softened by time.
“I came to your office.”
Adrian stared at it.
“When?”
“The day Vanessa was crying behind your door.”
His expression froze.
“You heard that?”
“I heard enough.”
I held the photograph between us.
“You told her she'd been wronged long enough. The next morning, my agency called to say I'd been dropped. By Friday, my contracts were gone.”
Adrian shook his head slowly.
“That conversation wasn't what you thought.”
“Then explain it.”
He hesitated.
And that hesitation was worse than a lie.
“Vanessa had shown me something,” he finally said.
“What?”
“Evidence that you had tried to sabotage her.”
I stared at him.
“Adrian, she was the one who sabotaged me.”
“I know that now.”
Those words stunned me.
“You know?”
“I started questioning the evidence two years ago.”
Two years.
I felt something cold settle inside my chest.
“You suspected I was innocent two years ago, and you still never called?”
His silence answered me.
Before I could speak again, someone knocked lightly on the conference-room window.
Rachel stood outside.
Noah was beside her.
But he wasn't smiling anymore.
I hurried out.
“What happened?”
Rachel looked frightened.
“One of the producers showed Noah an old interview clip.”
My heart sank.
“What interview?”
Noah lifted his face.
“Mom, why did the lady on TV say you hurt people?”
Across the studio, a large monitor displayed a frozen image from the scandal that had ended my career.
My younger face.
Vanessa crying.
The accusation that I'd bullied her during a film production.
Adrian came out behind me.
“Who played that?”
Nobody answered.
Then Vanessa Cole appeared on the monitor.
Not in an old interview.
Live.
She was standing outside the studio, surrounded by reporters.
“I've always believed children deserve to know the truth about their parents,” she said gently.
My stomach turned.
A reporter called out, “Are you suggesting Claire Bennett is lying about her son's father?”
Vanessa smiled sadly.
“I would never make that accusation without evidence.”
Then she raised a small velvet box.
Inside lay a silver child's wristwatch.
My knees nearly gave way.
I knew that watch.
I'd bought it for Noah's fifth birthday from a small antique shop in Vermont.
It had disappeared from his backpack two days earlier.
Vanessa continued.
“However, perhaps Claire should explain why her son is carrying something that belonged to the Blackwood family.”
Adrian stepped closer to the screen.
His face lost all color.
“No,” he whispered.
I turned toward him.
“What?”
He pointed at the watch.
“That isn't just a family heirloom.”
His voice broke.
“My father was wearing that watch the night he died.”
And on the monitor, Vanessa opened its back.
Inside was a photograph I had never seen.
May you like
A photograph of Adrian's father standing beside a much younger woman.
The woman was my mother.
