by Naima Simone
He gave his head a mental shake. He wasn’t here to rehash the colossal mistake he’d committed in the dark. He had a purpose, an agenda. And before he left this morning, it would be accomplished.
Making resolve a clear, hard wall in his chest, he moved into the living room. Well, moved was generous. The change in location from foyer to the main room only required two steps.
Jesus, the whole apartment could fit into his great room—three times. The living room and dining room melded into one space, only broken up by a small counter that separated it from the equally small kitchen. A cramped tunnel of a hallway shot off to the left and led to what he knew from floorplans of the building to be a miniscule bedroom, bathroom and closet.
At least it was clean. The obviously secondhand couch, coffee table and round dining table wore signs of life—scratches, scuff marks and ragged edges in the upholstery. But everything was neat and shined, the scent of pine and lemon a pleasant fragrance under the aroma of brewing coffee. Even the colorful toys—blocks, a plastic easel, a colorful construction set and books—were stacked in chaotic order in one corner.
A hard tug wrenched his gut to the point of pain at the sight of those symbols of childhood. A tug that resonated with yearning. Aiden had been only six months old the last time Darius had seen him. That’d been at Gage’s funeral. How much had the boy changed in the two years since? Had his light brown hair darkened to the nearly black of Gage’s own color? As he’d matured, had he grown to resemble his mother, or had he inherited more of his father’s features?
That had been the seed of Gage’s and the family’s doubts regarding the baby’s parentage. The boy had possessed neither Gage’s nor Isobel’s features, except for her eyes. So they’d assumed he must look like his father—his true father. That Isobel had refused a paternity test had further solidified their suspicions that Gage hadn’t been Aiden’s father. And then, out of spite, she’d made Gage choose—his family or her. Of course, out of love and loyalty, and foolish blindness, he’d chosen her, isolating himself from his parents and friends. Till the end.
Selfish. Conniving. Cold.
Except maybe not so cold. Darius had a firsthand example of how hot she could burn...
Shit.
Focus.
Unbuttoning his jacket, he turned and watched Isobel stride toward him. She did another of those chin lifts as she entered the living room. Jesus, even with suspicion heavy in those blue-gray eyes, they were striking. Haunting. Beautiful.
Deceitful.
“You’re not going to ask me to have a seat?” he drawled, the dark, twisted mix of bitterness and lust grinding relentlessly within him.
“Since you won’t be staying long, no,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest again. “What do you want?”
“That’s my question, Isobel.” Without her invite, he lowered to the dark blue, worn armchair across from the couch. “What do you want? Why were you at the gala last week?”
“None of your business.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. If you came there to pump the Wellses for money, then it is most definitely my business,” he said. Studying her, he caught the flash of emotion in her eyes. Emotion, hell. Guilt. That flash had been guilt. Satisfaction, thick and bright, flared within him. “What happened, Isobel? Did whatever fool you sank your claws into out there in Los Angeles come to his senses and kick you out before you sucked him dry?”
She stared at him, slowly uncoiling her arms and sinking to a perch on her sofa. “The poor fool you’re so concerned about was my Aunt Lila, who I stayed with to help her recover from a stroke,” she continued, derision heavy in her voice. “She died a couple of months ago from another massive stroke, which is why I’m back here in Chicago. Any more insults or assumptions you want to throw out there before finally telling me why you’re here?”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he murmured. And he was sorry. He, more than anyone, understood the pain of losing a loved one. But that’s all he would apologize for. Protecting and defending his family from someone who sought to use them? No, he’d never regret that. “Now... What do you want with the Wells family? Although—” he deliberately turned his head and scanned the tight quarters of her apartment, lingering on the pile of envelopes on the breakfast bar before returning his attention to her “—I can probably guess if you don’t want to admit it.”
Her shoulders rolled back, her spine stiffening. Even with her just-rolled-out-of-bed hair and clothes, she appeared...regal. Pride. It was the pride that clung to her as closely as the tank top molding to her breasts.
“What. Do. You. Want. With. Them?” he ground out, when she didn’t answer.
“Help,” she snapped, leaning forward, a matching anger lighting her arctic eyes. “I need their help. Not for me. I’d rather hang pictures and lay a welcome mat out in a freshly dug hole than go to them for anything. But for the grandson they’ve rejected and refused to acknowledge, I need them.”
“You would have the nerve to ask them for help—no, let’s call it what it is—for money and use your son to do it? The son you’ve kept from them for two years? That’s low even for you, Isobel.” The agony and helplessness over Gage’s death, the rage toward the woman who was supposed to have loved him, but who had instead mercilessly and callously broken him, surged within him. Tearing through him like a sword, damn near slicing him in half. But he submerged the roiling emotions beneath a thick sheet of ice. “The answer is no. You don’t get to decide when they can and can’t have a relationship with the grandson who is the only part they have left of the son they loved and lost. You might be his mother, and I use that term loosely—”
“Get out.” The quiet, sharp words cut him off. She stood, the fine tremor shivering through her body visible in the finger she pointed toward the door. “Get the hell out and don’t come back.”
“Not until we discuss—”
“You’re just like them,” she snarled, continuing as if he hadn’t even spoken. “Cut from the same golden but filthy cloth. You don’t know shit about me as a mother, because you haven’t been there. You, Baron or Helena. So you have zero right to have an opinion on how I’m raising my son. And for the record, I didn’t try to keep them from Aiden. They didn’t want him. Didn’t want to know him. Didn’t even believe he was their grandson. So don’t you dare walk in here, look at this apartment and judge me—”
“Oh, no, Isobel,” he contradicted her, slowly rising to his feet as well, tired of her lies. Especially about the people, the family, who’d taken him in when he’d lost his own. Who’d accepted him as their own. “I judged you long before this. Your actions as a wife—” he spat the word out, distasteful on his tongue “—condemned you.”
“Right.” She nodded, a sneer matching his own, curling her mouth. “I was the money-grabbing, social-climbing whore who tricked Gage into marriage by getting knocked up. And he was the sacrificial lamb who cherished and adored me, who remained foolishly loyal to me right up until the moment of his death.”
“Don’t,” he growled, the warning low, rough. He’d never called her a whore; he detested that word. Even when he’d discovered his ex-wife was fucking one of his vice presidents, Darius had never thrown that ugly name at her. Yet to hear Isobel talk about Gage in that dismissive manner when his biggest sin had been loving her... “You don’t get to talk about him like that.”
“Yes.” Her harsh crack of laughter echoed in the room. “That’s right, another rule I forgot from my time in my loving marriage. I don’t get to speak until I’m spoken to. And even then, keep it short before I embarrass him and myself. Well, sorry to break it to you, but this isn’t your home. It’s mine, and I want you out—”
“Mommy.” The small, childish voice dropped in the room like a hand grenade, cutting Isobel off. Both of them turned toward it. A toddler with dark, nearly black curls and round cheeks, and clad in Hulk paj
amas, hovered in the entrance to the living room. Shuffling back and forth on his bare feet, he stuck his thumb into his mouth and glanced from Isobel to Darius before returning his attention to her.
Aiden.
An invisible fist bearing brass knuckles landed a haymaker against Darius’s chest. The air in his lungs ejected on a hard, almost painful whoosh. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Not when his best friend’s son dashed across the floor and threw his tiny but sturdy body at his mother, the action full of confidence that she would catch him. Which she did. Kneeling, Isobel gathered him in her arms, standing up and holding him close.
Over his mother’s shoulder, Aiden stared at Darius with a gaze identical to Isobel’s. A hand roughly the size of a toddler’s reached into his chest and squeezed Darius’s heart. Hard.
Christ.
He’d expected to be happy or satisfied at finally seeing Aiden. But he hadn’t been prepared for this...this overwhelming joy or fierce protectiveness that swamped him, weakened his knees. Gage’s son—and there was no mistaking he was indeed Gage’s son. He might have Isobel’s eyes, but the hair, the shape of his face, his brow, nose, the wide, smiling mouth... They were all his best friend.
The need to protect the boy intensified, swelled. Darius would do anything in his power to provide for him...raise him the way Gage didn’t have the opportunity to do. Resolve shifting and solidifying in his chest, his paralysis broke, and he moved across the room, toward mother and son.
“Hello,” he greeted Aiden, the gravel-roughened tone evidence of the emotional storm still whirling inside him.
Aiden grinned, and the tightening around Darius’s ribcage increased.
“Aiden, this is Mr. King. Can you tell him hi?” Isobel shifted so she and Aiden faced Darius. Her voice might’ve been light and cheerful, but her eyes revealed that none of the anger from their interrupted conversation had abated. “Tell Mr. King, hi, baby,” she encouraged.
“Hi, Mr. King,” he mimicked. Though it actually sounded more like, Hi, Mih Key.
“Hi, Aiden,” he returned, smiling. And unable to help himself, he rubbed the back of a finger down the boy’s warm, chubby cheek.
A soft catch of breath reluctantly tugged his attention away from the child. He glanced at Isobel, and she stared at him, barely blinking. After a moment, she shook her head, turning her focus back to her son.
What had that been about? He studied her, trying to decipher the enigma that was Isobel Hughes.
There’s no enigma, no big mystery. Only what she allows you to see.
As the reminder boomed in his head, he frowned. His ex-wife had been an expert at hiding her true self until she’d wanted him to glimpse it. And that had only happened toward the end of the relationship, when both of them had stopped pretending they shared anything resembling a marriage. Not with her screwing other men, and Darius refusing to play the fool or pay for the black American Express card any longer.
“Want milk,” Aiden demanded as Isobel settled him on the floor again. “And ’nana.”
She brushed a hand over his curls, but the hair just fell back into his face. “You want cereal with your milk and banana?” she asked. Aiden nodded, smiling, as if congratulating her for understanding him. “Okay, but can you go play in the room while I fix it?”
Aiden nodded again, agreeing. “Go play.”
She took his hand in hers and led him back down the hall, talking to him the entire time until they disappeared. Several minutes later, she returned alone, the adoring, gentle expression she gave her son gone.
“I have things to do, so...” She waved toward the front door, but Darius didn’t move. “Seriously, this is ridiculous,” she snapped.
“He’s Gage’s son,” he murmured.
Fire flared in her eyes as they narrowed. “Are you sure? You can tell that from just a glance at him? After all, I’ve been with so many men. Any of them could be his real father.”
“Don’t play the victim, Isobel. It doesn’t fit,” he snapped. “And I’m not leaving until we talk.”
“I repeat,” she ground out. “We have nothing to—”
“We’re getting married.”
She rocked back on her bare heels as if struck. Shock rounded her fairy eyes, parted her lips. She gaped at him, her fingers fluttering to circle her neck. He should feel regret at so bluntly announcing his intentions. Should. But he didn’t.
He’d had a week to consider this idea. Yes, it seemed crazy, over-the-top, and he’d rejected it as soon as the thought had popped into his head. But it’d nagged at him, and the reasons why it would work eventually outweighed the ones why it wouldn’t. Of all the words used to describe him, impetuous or rash weren’t among them. He valued discipline and control, in business and in his personal life. His past had taught him both were important. It’d been an impromptu decision that had robbed him of both his parents, and an impulsive one that had led him to marry a woman he’d known for a matter of months. The same mistake Gage had made.
But this...proposition was neither. He’d carefully measured it, and though just the thought of tying himself to another manipulative woman sickened him, he was willing to make the sacrifice.
Whatever doubts might’ve lingered upon walking up to her building, they had disintegrated as soon as he’d laid eyes on Aiden.
“You’re crazy,” she finally breathed.
He smiled, and the tug to the corner of his mouth felt cynical, hard. “No. Just realistic.” He slid his hands into the front pockets of his pants, cocking his head and studying her pale, damnably lovely features. “Regardless of what you believe, I’m not judging you on the neighborhood you live in or your home. But the fact is you aren’t in the safest area of Chicago, and this building isn’t a shining example of security. The lock on the front door doesn’t work. Anyone could walk in here. The locks on your apartment door are for shit. There isn’t an alarm system. What if someone followed you home and busted in here? You would have no protection—you or Aiden.”
“So I have a security system installed and call the landlord about the locks on the building entrance and my door. Easy fixes, and none of them require marriage to a man I barely know who despises me.”
“If they were easy fixes,” he said, choosing to ignore her comment about his feelings toward her, “why haven’t you done them?” He paused, because something flickered in her gaze, and a surge of both anger and satisfaction glimmered in his chest. “You have contacted your landlord,” he stated, taking her silence as confirmation. “And he hasn’t done a damn thing about it.” He stepped forward, shrinking the space between them. “Pride, Isobel. You’re going to let pride prevent you from protecting your son.”
Lightning flashed in her gaze, and for a moment he found himself mesmerized by the display. Like a bolt of electricity across a morning sky.
“Let me enlighten you. Pride became a commodity I couldn’t afford a long time ago. But in the last two years, I’ve managed to scrape mine back together again. And neither you nor the Wellses can have it. I’m not afraid to ask for help. That’s why I was at the gala. Why I was willing to approach Baron and Helena again. For my son. But you’re not here to offer me help. You’re demanding I sell my soul to another devil, just with a different face and name. Well, sorry. I’m not going to play your game. Not when it won’t only be me losing this time, but Aiden, as well.”
“Selling your soul to the devil? Not playing the game?” he drawled. “Come now, Isobel. A poor college student nabbing herself the heir to a fortune? Trapping him with a pregnancy, then isolating him from his family? Cry me a river, sweetheart. I was there, so don’t try to revise history to suit your narrative.”
“You’re just like him,” she whispered.
Darius stifled a flinch. Then cursed himself for recoiling in the first place. Gage had been a good man—good to her.
“You have two c
hoices,” he stated. “One, agree to marry me and we both raise Aiden. Or two, disagree, and I’ll place the full weight of my name and finances behind Baron and Helena to help them gain custody of Aiden.”
She gasped and wavered on her feet. On instinct, he shifted forward, lifting his arms to steady her. But she backpedaled away from him, pressing a hand against the wall and holding up the other in a gesture that screamed stop right there.
“You,” she rasped, shaking her head. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“I would,” he assured her. “And I will.”
“Why?” She straightened, lowering both arms, but the shadows darkening her eyes gathered. “Why would you do that? Why would they? Baron and Helena...they don’t even believe Aiden is Gage’s. They’ve wanted nothing to do with him since he was born. Why would they seek custody now?”
“Because he is their grandson. I’ll convince them of that. And he deserves to know them, love them. Deserves to learn about his father and come to know him through his parents. Aiden is all Baron and Helena have left of Gage. And you would deprive them of that relationship. I won’t let you.” The unfairness of Isobel’s actions, of her selfishness, gnawed at him. She hadn’t witnessed the devastation Gage’s death had left behind, the wreckage. Baron had suffered a heart attack not long after, and yes, most of it could be attributed to lifestyle choices. But the loss of his only son, that had definitely been a contributing factor.
Yet if they’d had Aiden in their lives during these last two difficult years...he could’ve been a joy to them. But Isobel had skipped town, not even granting them the opportunity to bond. If she’d stayed long enough, Baron and Helena would’ve done just what Darius had—taken one look at the child and known he belonged to Gage.
“And I won’t let you make Aiden a pawn. Or worse, a substitute for Gage. He won’t become Gage. I refuse to allow you and the Wellses to turn him into his father. I’ll fight that with every breath in my body.”
“He would be lucky to become like the man his father was,” Darius growled. “To be loved by his parents. They welcomed me into their home, raised me when I had no one.”