Chapter 1
The chandelier overhead cast a blinding amber glare across the polished parquet floor of the ballroom, setting the sequins of my black dress ablaze with every step. I balanced the silver tray upon my fingertips, its two amber glasses vibrating slightly to the rhythm of the string quartet hidden behind the marble pillars. Ahead of me, a man in a sharp black suit stood rigid, his jaw clenched as he cradled a wailing infant against his chest. The baby's tiny fists beat frantically against the man's lapel, his face reddened with distress, until amber eyes locked onto mine. The infant lurged forward, stretching small fingers past the black tuxedo vest, crying out with a desperation that cut clean through the ambient chatter of the room.
My name is Clara.
I stopped dead in my tracks, the heavy tray tilting dangerously as the baby's cries echoed off the vaulted ceiling. The man in the black suit—Gideon—tightened his grip instinctively, his tattooed neck muscles straining as he tried to shield the child from view. But the baby would not be quieted; his entire tiny body strained toward me as if pulled by an invisible cord. I set the tray down on a passing waiter's stand without looking, my breathing shallow as I closed the distance between us. The scent of expensive cologne mixed with the sharp tang of infant tears. I leaned in close, the warmth of the child radiating through the thick wool of Gideon's suit jacket, and whispered the words before I could stop myself.
"Owen."
"I think he wants me," I murmured, my voice trembling as the tears spilled over my lashes.
Gideon looked down at me, his gaze as cold and unyielding as the stone pillars behind him. He adjusted his hold on the baby, his chest heaving beneath the crisp white shirt. "He doesn't do this," he said, his voice dropping into a harsh, warning register. "[unclear] That's impossible."
I didn't care about the whispers starting at the edge of the dance floor or the way the ballroom lights seemed to blur behind the wetness in my eyes. I reached out, my fingers brushing the damp wisps of hair on the baby's forehead, and felt the sudden, crushing weight of a decade rushing back into my chest. "I gave birth when I was 12," I said, the confession hanging in the warm air between us like broken glass.
Gideon froze, his dark eyes narrowing as he stared down at my face, searching for a lie that wasn't there. The baby quieted instantly against my arm as I slid my hands under his small frame, lifting him out of Gideon's grasp and pressing him tight against my pounding heart. Beneath the sleeve of my dress, my wrist brushed against the ornate silver bracelet I never removed, catching on the jagged, crescent-shaped scar that marked my skin.
The baby's tiny hand fluttered upward, his fingers grazing the metal and tracing the familiar contour of the mark. "What happened there?" he asked, his tone sharpening into a demand as he stared at my wrist.
"How old is he?" Gideon demanded, leaning in so close I could see the ink of the tattoos creeping up past his collar.
"10 months. Exact birthday. November 17th," I answered, each word a stone dropped into a deep well.
May you like
The color drained entirely from Gideon's face, leaving his skin stark against his dark beard. His lips parted, but no sound came out for a long, agonizing heartbeat. "They told me he died," he whispered.
I looked up from the child cradled safely in my arms, tears tracing hot tracks down my cheeks as I met the gaze of the man who held the other half of my ruined life. "Gideon, where did you get your son?"
