Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN WHO KNEW ABOUT THE BOY
“Someone who knew about Nathan long before I did.”
Sophia studied Xavier across the coffee-shop table.
“Are you telling me someone at your company has been watching my son?”
“I don't know.”
“That's not a comforting answer.”
“It's the only honest one I have.”
Xavier examined the stationery again.
The official signature was reproduced electronically, something his executive office used for routine correspondence.
But the handwritten message troubled him more.
Only a handful of people knew the details of what had happened seven years earlier.
And even fewer had access to correspondence carrying his name.
“My mother oversees our charitable foundation,” he said. “The education program falls partly under her office.”
Sophia's expression hardened.
“Eleanor Blackwood.”
“You remember her?”
“I remember meeting her once.”
Xavier frowned.
“When?”
“Three days before my position was eliminated.”
He put down the letter.
Sophia remembered the meeting perfectly.
Eleanor had appeared outside Sophia's office wearing a cream-colored coat and pearls that probably cost more than Sophia earned in a year.
She hadn't raised her voice.
She hadn't needed to.
“She told me you had responsibilities I couldn't understand,” Sophia said. “Then she asked whether I'd considered pursuing opportunities outside the company.”
Xavier remained silent.
“I assumed you sent her.”
“I didn't.”
“Then why didn't you call me after I was fired?”
The question landed harder than either expected.
Xavier looked at his coffee.
“Because I was relieved not to have to face you.”
Sophia's anger faltered.
Not because the admission excused anything.
But because it was the first time he had described his cowardice without disguising it as responsibility.
“That's the ugliest truthful thing you've said to me,” she replied.
“I know.”
That afternoon, Xavier went directly to Blackwood Dynamics headquarters.
He didn't call ahead.
He walked past the reception desk, through the executive corridor, and into the office of his longtime chief operating officer, Victor Sloan.
Victor had worked beside the Blackwood family for nearly twenty years.
Tall, silver-haired, and perpetually composed, he was the man investors trusted when Xavier became too ambitious.
“Xavier,” Victor said, rising. “You missed the product meeting.”
“I need the correspondence records for our education division.”
Victor's smile faded slightly.
“What correspondence?”
“Student complaints about the B-12.”
“That's handled by customer support.”
“Then give me the records.”
Victor studied him.
“Does this have something to do with the boy at the party?”
Xavier stopped.
“How do you know about that?”
Victor's expression remained pleasant.
“Eleanor mentioned you encountered an old acquaintance.”
“She mentioned a boy?”
“Only that the evening was uncomfortable.”
Xavier felt a cold uneasiness.
“My mother's office has been reviewing children's technical complaints?”
Victor leaned back.
“The foundation helps subsidize tablets for schools. It's perfectly normal for complaints to reach them.”
“And letters sent in my name?”
“Your signature is on half the correspondence leaving this building.”
“Then perhaps we should change that.”
Victor's smile disappeared.
An hour later, Xavier had the complaint file.
Nathan Laurent's letter was there.
Written in careful, uneven handwriting on lined notebook paper.
Dear Mr. Blackwood,
I like your science tablets, but mine gets really hot when I make a big bridge. I think the heat has nowhere to go. I drew a picture.
Thank you, Nathan Laurent. Age 7.
Below it was a drawing of the tablet with arrows showing heat trapped behind the battery compartment.
Xavier stared at the drawing.
His own first engineering notebook had been filled with almost identical arrows.
But the attached photographs were more disturbing.
The back panel had visibly warped.
A report marked the complaint as resolved.
No replacement had been issued.
No technical investigation had been recorded.
And the response had been routed through the Blackwood Family Office.
Xavier printed the file.
Then he went to see his mother.
Eleanor Blackwood lived in a limestone townhouse overlooking Central Park.
At sixty-eight, she still commanded a room without raising her voice.
She greeted Xavier in her private sitting room, where fresh white roses stood beside photographs of the family.
“You look exhausted,” she said.
“Did you answer a letter from Nathan Laurent?”
Eleanor paused while pouring tea.
It lasted less than a second.
But Xavier saw it.
“I answer hundreds of letters.”
“This one was sent by a seven-year-old boy.”
She put down the teapot.
“Your foundation distributes thousands of devices, darling.”
“Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Pretend you don't know who he is.”
Eleanor looked toward the window.
For the first time, Xavier noticed how tightly she gripped the arm of her chair.
“Did Sophia tell you?” he asked.
“Tell me what?”
“That Nathan is my son.”
Silence settled over the room.
At last, Eleanor spoke.
“Have you considered the consequences of making that public?”
Xavier felt something inside him turn cold.
“That wasn't my question.”
“Your company is preparing a major acquisition. Investors watch everything you do. A scandal involving a child—”
“He isn't a scandal.”
Eleanor flinched.
Xavier stepped closer.
“Did you write that sentence on Nathan's letter?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
“I know Victor's department handles sensitive matters.”
“Mother.”
She raised her chin.
“I'm trying to protect you.”
“From what? My own child?”
Eleanor's expression changed.
He had never spoken to her that way before.
For a moment, he saw something older than her wealth or authority.
Fear.
“Your father nearly lost everything when you were a boy,” she said. “You don't remember the creditors. You don't remember me explaining to employees why their paychecks were late.”
“I remember you working.”
“Then understand that I know what it costs to build something people depend on.”
Xavier shook his head.
“That doesn't give you the right to decide who matters.”
He turned to leave.
Then Eleanor said something that stopped him.
“How is Nathan feeling?”
Xavier looked back.
“What?”
“I heard he had a difficult fever last winter.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Sophia hadn't mentioned that fever.
Neither had Vivien.
And Xavier hadn't known Nathan existed last winter.
“How would you know that?”
Eleanor's face drained of color.
“Xavier—”
“How would you know my son was sick?”
She didn't answer.
He moved toward the photographs on the mantel.
Among the carefully arranged family portraits was a small silver frame turned toward the wall.
Xavier picked it up.
Inside was a photograph of an infant wrapped in a pale blue hospital blanket.
Dark hair.
Gray-blue eyes.
Underneath, in Sophia's handwriting, were two words.
Nathan Laurent.
Xavier stared at the photograph.
His hands began to shake.
“Where did you get this?”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
He turned the frame over.
A faded hospital identification sticker was attached to the back.
The date was November 14.
Seven years earlier.
The day Nathan was born.
Xavier slowly faced his mother.
“You knew.”
Eleanor said nothing.
“You knew Sophia had my son.”
Tears gathered in her eyes.
“Xavier, please understand—”
He held up the photograph.
“How long?”
Eleanor swallowed.
May you like
Then she finally answered.
“I've known Nathan was alive since the day he was born.”
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