And of course, Harris had been the more confident, popular twin. Loved by everyone. Adored by the masses. He and Olivia had been attached at the hip throughout childhood, and maybe the reason Greyson had allowed her to trail after him for so long when she’d hit puberty was because for once in his life, someone—no, not just any old someone, Olivia—had found him more interesting than his brother. Seeing her again, touching her, loving her . . . he had been primitively and possessively thrilled to discover that he had been her first.
She had been his alone, and he had fucking loved that. But it had taken mere months before Harris had ruined that for him. Taken her from him.
He stared at his brother, loving him yet hating and resenting him so much at the same time it was almost physically impossible to bear. He wanted Harris gone.
Now.
“I’m knackered, Harris,” he said. And immediately despised himself for once again defaulting to the simpleton who could never say exactly what he felt.
“You’re an asshole, that’s what you are. You’ve just had a beautiful daughter, so why the hell are you here and not by your wife’s side?”
“Always ready to fight the good fight for your little ‘Bug,’ aren’t you?” The words tumbled from Greyson’s lips, bringing with them months—no, years—of resentment, fury, and envy. “What the fuck were you thinking, Harris? Did you think I’d just accept this, like some weak little patsy? Did you think that I’d never find out? That you could just do whatever the hell you pleased while I’m left to deal with the consequences of your actions? Just like ten years ago, when you left me to clean up your mess.” He paused for a moment, watching his brother flinch as his verbal blow landed. He felt a moment’s sick guilt for bringing it up, but he needed Harris to know that he wasn’t going to stand for this. They would both happily have left Greyson to raise that child as his own. He knew it; it was the only thing that made any kind of sense to him. If they had wanted to change the status quo, they would have done so by now. They hadn’t, and that told Greyson that their plan was for him to play father to their child while they continued their twisted affair without any blowback from either family.
“We’re not discussing that,” Harris said, still ashen with shock after Greyson’s previous statement. “We’re talking about your abandonment of your wife and child.”
“That’s not my child,” Greyson stated matter of factly. He felt a weird, almost perverse triumph at being able to fling that truth down between them. “I had mumps when I was nineteen. I’m sterile.” The doctor had been brutally frank on what he thought Greyson’s chances were of ever conceiving a child. Greyson had made peace with that fact long ago. He didn’t think he was cut out to be a father anyway. At least that’s what he had always told himself to soothe away the pang of masculine inadequacy he had never dared to acknowledge before discovering that his wife had conceived a child with his brother.
His words made Harris pause, a confused frown wrinkling his brow, before he shook his head. “Of course she’s your child,” Harris practically shouted, looking beyond frustrated with Greyson. “She even has your fucking birthmark on her thigh.”
Greyson knew to which birthmark Harris was referring, a port-wine stain neatly shaped into a crescent that resembled a C. His grandmother had often joked that the Chapmans sported their own brand. He hadn’t known that the baby had the same birthmark, but his stomach sank as his brother’s words laid that last, lingering doubt to rest.
“I’m not the only one with that birthmark.” His lips barely moved as he forced the words out.
Harris’s jaw dropped at that statement, and his eyes widened and then narrowed. He moved so swiftly that Greyson barely had time to react—one moment they were eye to eye, and the next Greyson was on the floor, staring up into his brother’s livid face.
“You bastard.” Harris’s voice was quiet. Greyson didn’t recognize this silently seething man as his usually irascible brother. Harris looked furious and hurt and betrayed. And that pissed Greyson off. If anyone should feel betrayed here, it was he.
He leaped to his feet, unfamiliar fury clawing at his throat as he fought the urge to raise his voice. To shout and use his fists as his brother had just done.
“I’m the bastard?” he asked, his voice wobbling a little as he fought to control the wave of absolute rage that crashed through him. “I’m not the one who fucked his brother’s wife.”
Harris drew back his fist again, but Greyson’s well-honed reflexes kicked in, and he easily sidestepped his brother’s punch, shoving the man in the same move. This time Harris was the one who went sprawling to the carpet.
“Greyson.” Harris’s voice was hoarse with emotion as he glared up at Greyson from the floor. “You’re my brother. I love you. But I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive you for this. I had mumps too. I got the same fucking doomsday speech from Dr. Crowe. Not that I cared much back then, but I always had it in the back of my mind I’d go for a second opinion eventually. When I was ready to have kids. If you believe you’re infertile, then you have to believe I am too. So where did that baby come from? I know it wasn’t from me. I would never touch Libby. She’s your wife! How the hell could you think I’d do that to you? How could you think she would do that to you? The girl has been crazy about you for years. Why? I don’t know. You’ve never deserved her.”
“And you think that you do?” Greyson asked distractedly, the heat gone from his voice as his brain attempted to process his brother’s words. He tried to cling to his righteous anger, but all he could think about was the time he and Harris had both been laid low with mumps. They had always gotten ill at the same time. When they were kids, their nanny, Clara, had complained that they were doing it deliberately to make her job and life miserable.
He’d never considered it before, because Dr. Crowe had had separate discussions with them at the time. They’d been young adults and as such, for the first time, had been afforded the dignity of being treated as individuals rather than a single entity.
He and Harris had never discussed it, and he had never really thought about it. Hearing that he couldn’t conceive hadn’t meant much to his nineteen-year-old self. The thought of having children hadn’t even occurred to him at that age, and the news hadn’t really bothered him much. He had never considered that Harris would have received the same news.
He had never doubted Dr. Crowe’s prognosis. Never thought to get a second opinion. What if . . .
He shook his head violently.
No.
No what-ifs.
If he could conceive, if that child was his, then he had just fucked up so badly that there was no way of ever recovering from it.
But . . . what if . . .
He felt his breath catch in his chest. He met Harris’s eyes. His brother still looked pissed off. More than that . . . he looked broken.
“You and Olivia have always been close,” Greyson pointed out softly, knowing that he was clutching at straws now.
“We’re friends,” Harris said icily.
“But I saw you . . .” The words sounded weak even to Greyson’s ears, and they tapered off for a moment as he thought about that day. In the restaurant, the smiles, the laughter . . . the intimacy of it.
“Saw us?” Harris pushed himself up from the floor and stood in front of Greyson, refusing to meet his eyes.
“At the Glass Lounge one afternoon about seven months ago. You looked . . .” Greyson paused, his brow furrowed and his stomach roiling in sick confusion. Why wouldn’t Harris look at him? Harris never had qualms about meeting anyone’s gaze. The only time he avoided eye contact was when he was trying to disguise his emotions. When he was trying to hide how badly he was hurt. Greyson cleared his throat before continuing. “You looked cozy. And Olivia straight up lied to me about your lunch. Why would she lie about lunching with you?”
Harris seemed to shake himself out of his funk, finally lifting his hooded gaze to Greyson’s.
“That’s it? Fuc
king lunch?” He practically spat the words. “That’s your proof? Your reason for ignoring your wife, rejecting your child, and . . .” He stopped abruptly and shook his head. His face twisting with emotion.
“Not only lunch,” Greyson said, his voice thready and lacking conviction. Everything that had seemed so damned certain just ten minutes ago now felt as insubstantial as the morning mist. “She lied. Why would she lie about it?”
“Because she wanted to surprise you on our birthday.” Harris’s eyes slid from his again. His words emerged on a stiff monotone, his voice lacking its usual verve. “She told me she had an announcement to make and wanted the evening to be special. She didn’t give a rat’s ass that it was my birthday too . . . she was too focused on making sure the night would be perfect for you. We met that afternoon to discuss how I was supposed to distract you, keep you away from the apartment until she had everything set up. Only you weren’t around to distract, were you? You flew out to London for the weekend without any kind of warning.
“You want to talk about cleaning up someone’s messes? I’m the one who had to fucking tell her you had left without a word. I’m the one who had to go to your apartment and inform your wife that you wouldn’t be there to see how beautiful she looked for you. Or how much work she had put into preparing the perfect meal for you . . . you should have seen that place. The fairy lights, the candles, the flowers. I’m the one who had to see the devastation on her face and then watch as she forced it back to make yet another excuse for your sorry ass. You took a stupid little white lie and used it to destroy your marriage. And your relationship with me.”
“Harris . . .” Greyson’s attempt at communication stalled right there. He couldn’t find the words. He didn’t know what to say, what to believe.
Where to go from here.
A birthday surprise. She had mentioned something similar when she had told him about the baby. But by that time he had already decided that she was not to be trusted. That she was a lying, cheating bitch who didn’t deserve his attention. And then she had told him about the baby, and it had frozen him inside. Iced over his every emotion . . .
Harris finally met his eyes, and Greyson sucked in a harsh breath as he saw the suspicious sheen in his twin’s gaze.
Fuck!
He opened his mouth to apologize, but the words were inadequate. His brother’s sincerity wasn’t in doubt. And if Harris wasn’t the baby’s father, the birthmark left only one other viable candidate.
His stomach felt like it was about to revolt . . . and then it did.
He barely made it to the bathroom on time. And when the bout of extreme self-disgust had waned enough for his gut to settle, he made his way back to the living room.
Harris was gone.
Leaving Greyson with nothing. And nobody.
“He actually said that?” Tina asked, her voice a study in horror and disbelief. After Tina had returned to the hospital in record time, Libby had taken one look at her friend before succumbing to a fresh bout of tears. The entire sordid story had tumbled from her lips in stops and starts while Tina had listened to the halting diatribe in shocked silence. Libby knew she had to be a complete mess, her face swollen and wet from all the tears she had shed.
“Yes. I have to get out of here, Tina. You have to help me,” she begged.
“Of course, but . . .” Tina shook her head, looking uncertain.
“No buts,” Libby interrupted defiantly. “My husband just told me he doesn’t believe our child is his. There are no buts here; I’m leaving him.”
“That goes without saying,” Tina soothed, always loyal. “But I’m not sure you can leave the hospital just yet.”
“I can. Both Clara and I are healthy enough to leave.” Libby had asked the doctor earlier, and while the man had advised against it, when pushed he had acknowledged that keeping them there overnight was just a precaution.
“Clara?” Tina asked, her eyebrows rising.
“Yes. I’ve decided to name her Clara.” Libby knew that her decision to name her baby that had stemmed from a place of defiance and pettiness. If Greyson wanted no part of his beautiful daughter, then he had absolutely no say in what Libby chose to name her. She knew, given his disinterest earlier, that he probably didn’t give two damns about what she named the baby anyway, but she still felt a surge of satisfaction in knowing that the name she’d chosen was nowhere near anything Greyson would have wanted.
“It’s a pretty name,” Tina said sincerely, and Libby sagged back onto the bed, feeling exhausted and heartbroken.
“Look, I’ll make a deal with you,” Tina said quietly, reaching out to take one of Libby’s hands into hers. “Spend the night in hospital, and I’ll take you anywhere you want to go tomorrow, okay? It’s best for both you and Clara.”
Libby lifted her free hand to cover her eyes and sobbed, tears seeping from beneath her palm and running down the sides of her face to soak the cushion beneath her head. She hated this. Hated how lost and afraid she felt.
“I don’t understand why he’s being so cruel.” God, she sounded truly pathetic. She hated that too. She loathed how weak he had made her. Tina didn’t answer, merely squeezed her hand comfortingly.
“We’ll get you discharged first thing in the morning, okay? It’s nearly midnight now anyway, and I’m sure they’re going to kick me out soon. Do you need anything before I go?”
Libby shook her head, completely incapable of suppressing her sobs.
“Oh, Libby,” Tina whispered. “I wish I could make this go away, I honestly do. Do you want me to speak with Greyson? See what’s going on?” Tina tended to avoid the Chapman brothers, so her offer to speak with Greyson was really sweet. Libby lifted her hand from her eyes to meet her friend’s concerned gaze.
“No. It’s fine. Harris has already said he was going to talk with him about this. Against my wishes, I might add. He’s trying to fix it. It can’t be fixed. I won’t forgive Greyson for this.”
“Prick,” Tina muttered under her breath, and Libby wasn’t sure if she was referring to Greyson or Harris. She had never really told Libby why she so despised Harris when she had once worshipped the ground he walked on. “I’ll pick you up first thing in the morning, okay? You’ll stay with me. Unless . . . I mean, do you want to stay with your parents?”
Libby shook her head, dislodging even more tears onto her wet cheeks. “No. I can’t. Their flat was bought and paid for by the Chapmans. I don’t want anything to do with that family or their filthy money right now.”
“Of course.”
“I mean, my parents earned their retirement gifts, and I’m happy for them. But . . . I don’t want to feel beholden to those people. I can take care of myself and my child. I don’t need them.” Libby’s voice was strained and nasal with tears but still held a firm note of defiance and anger.
“I get it,” Tina soothed. “You can stay with me until we figure out the rest, okay?”
“I need Clara’s things,” Libby cried, feeling totally despondent as she recognized that she couldn’t sever all ties completely yet. Not until she got everything she needed for her baby.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it,” Tina promised.
Something was wrong with this fucking whiskey. It wasn’t doing the job. Greyson glared at the nearly empty bottle bitterly before taking another swig from it, hoping that this time it would have the desired effect of wiping the image of Olivia’s tearful face from his memory. The liquor barely burned on the way down anymore, and he paused for a moment, giving it time to work, and then swore when he saw her face, clear as day. The confusion, followed by horror, and then an emotion that he had refused to acknowledge as pain at the time. Instead of dulling his senses, the whiskey was giving him clarity that he would rather not have. The pain and confusion on her beautiful face hadn’t been an act; he could see that now.
The absolute loathing that swiftly followed had also not been faked, and that memory more than any other drove him to finish the
bottle before reaching for another.
There was banging coming from the front door, and he swore, resenting the intrusion.
“Fuck off!” he yelled in response to the thumping, but the intrusive asshole was persistent, and the banging only got louder. Swearing even more, he slammed the bottle of alcohol down onto the coffee table, staggered to his feet, and stumbled to the door. Apparently, the whiskey had succeeded in screwing up his motor skills if nothing else. He flung the door open and experienced a moment of sheer, unadulterated joy when he saw his brother standing there.
Could it be that Harris had forgiven him for the unforgivable?
“I’m here for some of Libby’s things,” Harris said, his grim face and voice immediately dispelling the notion that his brother was there to offer him absolution. It took a moment for the words to sink in, and when they did, Greyson felt dread rising from the pit of his stomach.
“Why?” he asked stupidly, and Harris rewarded the question with an irritated glare.
“She’ll be staying with Tina for a while.”
“Not with you?” Was that really his voice? It sounded thick and slurred. Fucking whiskey. Leaving his brain as sharp as the proverbial tack while apparently negatively impacting every other aspect of his body.
“No, Greyson. Sorry not to confirm your disgusting and offensive suspicions about us, but no, she won’t be staying with me. I would be happy if she did, mind you . . . but apparently she’d rather not be around someone who looks like you right now.”
Greyson took the hit; he deserved that and much more. But it still stung like a son of a bitch.
“She can stay here. There’s plenty of space,” he said, knowing even as he said it that it was a ridiculous idea.
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