Chapter 3 - THE BILLIONAIRE I COULD NO LONGER LIE TO
I almost canceled the meeting.
Liam wanted me to.
He wanted me out of Manhattan before sunrise.
“Connect the obvious things,” he said while pacing the apartment. “You hear from Ethan, then somebody leaves a picture using Evelyn.”
“That doesn’t mean Ethan sent it.”
“I didn’t say he did.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“I’m thinking Harrison is written on the threat.”
I stared at the photograph.
THE HARRISONS SHOULD HAVE FINISHED THIS YEARS AGO.
Plural.
Not Ethan.
Not Malcolm.
Not Caleb.
Harrisons.
A family name large enough to hide individual guilt.
“Call the federal contact,” Liam said.
The original protection liaison assigned after my parents died had retired years earlier.
But I still had a number for the victims’ services division that maintained the sealed identity file.
I called.
They took the threat seriously.
An investigator named Dana Lewis arranged to collect the envelope, examine building cameras, and review whether any old case subjects had resurfaced.
She also told me something I did not want to hear.
“If your current identity may be compromised, we need to review your exposure.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you should not make sudden changes without coordination.”
“I’m pregnant.”
Silence.
Then:
“Does the father know your protected history?”
“No.”
“Does he know you’re pregnant?”
“No.”
“Who is he?”
I closed my eyes.
“Ethan Harrison.”
Dana stopped speaking.
Long enough that I checked whether the call had dropped.
“Ms. Collins.”
“I know.”
“Do you understand Harrison Urban Holdings appeared in your father’s original materials?”
“Yes.”
“I need to notify my supervisor.”
“Does that mean I can’t see him?”
“You are not under detention. You make your own decisions.”
That mattered.
“Then what do you recommend?”
“Public location. Tell nobody else the location. Keep Liam informed. Do not reveal details about the original investigation until we know who sent the threat.”
Reasonable.
Terrifying.
At 1:55 the next afternoon, Ethan entered the café wearing a charcoal coat and no visible security.
I knew better than to believe security was absent.
Men like Ethan did not move alone simply because the bodyguard stood across the street.
He spotted me immediately.
His expression changed.
Warmth.
Then concern.
“You’re pale.”
“Hello to you too.”
He sat.
“Sorry.”
A waitress came.
I ordered ginger tea.
Ethan ordered black coffee.
Of course.
For several minutes, we talked around everything.
Work.
Weather.
The diner.
His company.
Then he stopped.
“Emma.”
I looked at him.
“What’s wrong?”
I had rehearsed seven versions.
None survived his face.
“I’m pregnant.”
He did not move.
The café continued around us.
Cups.
Silverware.
Someone laughing two tables away.
Ethan’s fingers slowly released the coffee mug.
“How far?”
“Six weeks.”
His eyes met mine.
“Mine?”
I flinched.
He saw it.
“I’m sorry.”
“No. It’s fair.”
“I shouldn’t have asked like that.”
“You have a right to know.”
“Do I?”
The question surprised me.
He leaned forward.
“I mean, you’re telling me something that changes your body and your life before it changes mine. I don’t want to start by acting like I own the situation.”
My throat tightened.
“I’m keeping the baby.”
He nodded once.
“Okay.”
“That’s all?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you asking whether I want the baby?”
I looked down.
“Yes.”
Ethan was quiet.
Then:
“I didn’t know ten minutes ago that I might become a father.”
My stomach dropped.
“But,” he continued, “I know I’m not walking away.”
I looked at him.
He did not smile.
This was too serious for reassurance theater.
“I need time to understand what being involved looks like,” he said. “So do you.”
“That sounds very reasonable.”
“I’m trying.”
“Billionaires usually outsource reasonableness.”
“Expensive department.”
I laughed despite myself.
Then nausea hit.
I pressed a hand against my mouth.
Ethan stood instantly.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you?”
“Sit down.”
He sat.
Good.
No grabbing.
No commanding a car.
No doctor summoned because he could.
I noticed.
“Have you seen someone medically?”
“Yes.”
“Anything I should know?”
“Everything looks normal so far.”
His shoulders lowered.
He had been afraid.
Interesting.
Then:
“What do you need?”
There it was.
The dangerous question.
Because Ethan could provide anything.
Money.
Apartment.
Doctor.
Security.
Tuition.
A life so far removed from my current one it could erase the person I had worked to become.
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
“No penthouse.”
He blinked.
“I didn’t offer one.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I have several.”
“That is exactly the problem.”
He smiled slightly.
Then his expression changed.
“I would like to cover medical costs.”
“I have insurance.”
“You work at a diner.”
“I still have insurance.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant.”
He stopped.
Then:
“What would make this feel less like I’m taking over?”
I stared at him.
No man in my life had ever asked that exact question.
“Ask before solving.”
He nodded.
“Done.”
That promise would be tested quickly.
We talked for another hour.
He wanted future updates.
I agreed.
He wanted a paternity test eventually if medically safe.
I agreed without offense.
He asked whether I wanted anyone from his legal team involved.
“No.”
“Understood.”
Then he asked:
“Can I know where you live?”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
Ethan noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
“I’m private.”
“You said that before.”
“I mean very private.”
He studied me.
Then:
“You use a prepaid phone.”
My heart stopped.
“You noticed?”
“Yes.”
“You looked me up.”
“No.”
“Then how—”
“You told me that night your phone had no contract because you hate bills.”
I had forgotten.
He continued.
“And you never gave me a last name.”
I had.
Emma Collins.
Not that first night.
Later through catering records.
“Does your security team know who I am?”
Ethan went still.
“What does that mean?”
“Exactly what I asked.”
“I had my assistant confirm you worked through the hotel vendor after you left.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
He looked offended.
Then suspicious.
“Should there have been?”
I needed to leave.
My chair moved backward.
Ethan did not reach for me.
“Emma.”
“I have to go.”
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I stood.
He lowered his voice.
“Whatever you’re afraid I’m going to discover, I won’t investigate you behind your back.”
I froze.
He read people too well.
“Why would you say that?”
“Because you look terrified every time I ask a normal question.”
My eyes burned.
He continued carefully.
“If there’s something I need to know before we raise a child together, tell me when you can.”
Not now.
Not or else.
When you can.
I wanted to trust it.
I could not.
“I’ll call.”
I left.
Outside, my phone rang before I reached the corner.
Liam.
“What?”
“Come home.”
His voice was wrong.
“What happened?”
“Somebody got into the apartment.”
I stopped walking.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“What did they take?”
“Nothing obvious.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Because your room is destroyed.”
My blood went cold.
“Police?”
“On the way.”
Then:
“Emma, they found the floorboard.”
The floorboard.
Under my childhood suitcase.
Where I had hidden the only objects I kept from Evelyn Reed’s life.
My mother’s necklace.
My father’s old notebook.
A sealed key envelope he gave me three days before he died.
“What’s missing?”
“The notebook is here.”
“And the key?”
Silence.
“Liam.”
“The envelope’s gone.”
I closed my eyes.
That key had remained unused for thirteen years because my father gave me only one instruction.
If anything happens to us, never use this unless someone proves Aaron Reed was telling the truth.
I had never known what it opened.
Apparently someone else did.
Before I could speak, a black SUV stopped at the curb beside me.
My entire body tensed.
The rear window lowered.
Ethan sat inside.
He looked at my face.
Then toward the phone.
“Emma?”
I stepped backward.
He raised both hands.
“I was heading downtown. I saw you.”
Maybe true.
Maybe not.
My phone remained at my ear.
Liam whispered:
“Do not get in that car.”
Ethan looked at me.
“Something happened.”
It was not a question.
I stared at the billionaire whose family name had been written on a threat sent to my apartment.
Then I looked at the car.
At the street.
At my reflection in the dark glass.
For thirteen years, Evelyn Reed had survived by running whenever the past found her.
Now I was carrying a child whose last name might be Harrison.
Running was no longer simple.
I looked at Ethan.
“My real name isn’t Emma.”
He went completely still.
I took one breath.
“It’s Evelyn Reed.”
The color left his face.
May you like
He knew the name.
And whatever Ethan Harrison believed about my father, I was about to find out.
