Chapter 7 - THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
Caroline Worthington arrived at my office wearing white.
I remembered thinking that detail was absurdly appropriate.
White coat.
White dress.
Pearl earrings.
The costume of innocence.
She entered the conference room as though she had been invited to lunch instead of summoned by attorneys.
“Elena looks good,” she said.
I didn’t offer her a chair.
“Why did you hire someone to investigate her?”
Caroline smiled faintly.
“You always did skip small talk.”
“Answer me.”
“I was protecting you.”
I laughed.
“I’m becoming very tired of people using that phrase.”
She sighed.
“Fine.”
She sat anyway.
“Your mother contacted me six years ago.”
“I know.”
“She wanted us together.”
“I know that too.”
“She believed Elena was unsuitable.”
“I also know that.”
Caroline’s smile disappeared.
“What you don’t know is that Beatrice offered my father a partnership stake if I helped convince you the marriage was over.”
My stomach turned.
“Did you?”
“I had dinner with you.”
“Once.”
“Twice.”
“And nothing happened.”
“No.”
“Then why allow photographs suggesting otherwise?”
“Because I was twenty-seven and stupid.”
At least she didn’t insult me by pretending nobility.
“And now?”
“Now I’m thirty-three and apparently still stupid.”
“Why investigate Elena?”
Caroline looked toward the windows.
“My father’s company collapsed last year.”
“What does that have to do with Elena?”
“Beatrice offered to help.”
“In exchange for?”
“Information.”
“About my children?”
“About Elena.”
My jaw tightened.
“You gave her the hospital records.”
“No.”
I stopped.
“My investigator found them. But your mother refused to use them.”
That surprised me.
“She said it would go too far.”
I almost laughed at the absurdity.
“So you leaked them yourself.”
Caroline looked ashamed.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought if Elena looked unstable, you would fight for custody.”
“And then?”
“You would need support.”
Understanding arrived.
“You thought I would turn to you.”
Caroline’s eyes met mine.
“Yes.”
I stared at her.
“You attacked the mother of my children hoping I’d become emotionally available?”
“When you put it that way—”
“How else would you put it?”
She stood.
“I loved you.”
“No. You loved the version of me that came with a last name and a family your father wanted access to.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither was throwing a brick through Elena’s window.”
Caroline’s face drained.
“That wasn’t me.”
I studied her.
“Then who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe you leaked private medical information but stopped at property damage?”
“Yes.”
Something in her fear seemed genuine.
Before I could respond, my assistant knocked.
“There’s a detective here.”
The brick investigation had progressed.
The man responsible was a twenty-two-year-old obsessed with online celebrity scandals.
No connection to Caroline.
No connection to my mother.
He had seen Elena’s address posted in an online forum after the media frenzy.
The discovery taught me something I should have understood earlier.
Damage spreads.
One leak becomes a headline.
A headline becomes harassment.
Harassment becomes danger.
Nobody controls the consequences once cruelty enters the world.
Caroline ultimately admitted her role publicly.
Her attorneys negotiated to prevent criminal charges related to the medical records by cooperating with the hospital’s investigation.
For Elena, it was enough.
“I don’t want revenge,” she told me.
We were sitting in her kitchen.
The children had gone to bed.
“You’d be entitled to it.”
“I’ve spent six years building things. I don’t want to spend another six destroying people.”
That was Elena.
Always building.
I looked at her.
“You know what I did after our divorce?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Besides become obnoxiously successful?”
“Mostly work.”
“I assumed.”
“I told myself I was building the life I had sacrificed everything for.”
“And?”
“I hated it.”
Elena looked down.
“I dated.”
My chest tightened.
She noticed.
“Oh, don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That jaw thing.”
“What jaw thing?”
“The jealous jaw thing.”
“I don’t have a jealous jaw.”
“You absolutely do.”
I leaned back.
“Was it serious?”
“That question is none of your business.”
“You’re right.”
She blinked.
Apparently she had expected an argument.
I smiled slightly.
“I’m learning.”
“That’s unsettling.”
“Still curious.”
“Alex.”
“Fine.”
She laughed.
Then grew quiet.
“There was one serious relationship.”
I tried not to react.
Failed.
“Daniel?”
“No.”
Relief came so quickly I hated myself.
“His name was Mark.”
“What happened?”
“He wanted to marry me.”
My stomach sank.
“And?”
“I almost said yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
She looked toward the dark window.
“Because he wanted me.”
I waited.
“But he tolerated the children.”
I understood immediately.
“That wasn’t enough.”
“No.”
“Good.”
She smiled faintly.
“That was an aggressively fast answer.”
“I’m still working on maturity.”
Our eyes met.
Something changed.
Six years disappeared for half a second.
She was my wife again.
I was the man who used to dance with her barefoot in our kitchen.
Then she looked away.
“I’m scared of you.”
The words stunned me.
“Elena…”
“Not physically.”
“I know.”
“I’m scared because part of me remembers loving you before everything became ugly.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“And part of me hates that you can still make me laugh.”
“I hate myself for a lot of things too.”
“That isn’t what I mean.”
She stood and walked toward the counter.
“I built my life so I would never have to depend on someone choosing me again.”
I approached but kept distance between us.
“I’m not asking you to depend on me.”
“Then what are you asking?”
I answered carefully.
“To let me become dependable.”
Her eyes glistened.
No declarations.
No dramatic kiss.
I had made those mistakes before—believing intense emotion could substitute for patient love.
So I stepped backward.
“Good night, Elena.”
She looked surprised.
“You’re leaving?”
“You said you’re scared.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to make you more scared.”
I picked up my coat.
At the door, she said my name.
“Alex.”
I turned.
She crossed the room.
For one irrational moment, I thought she might kiss me.
Instead, she hugged me.
Her arms wrapped around my chest.
Mine remained suspended for a second before I gently held her.
Nothing about it was passionate.
That made it more dangerous.
I remembered this.
The way her forehead fit beneath my chin.
The way she exhaled when she finally relaxed.
After a few seconds, she stepped away.
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
I drove home smiling like an idiot.
The following morning, Beatrice was waiting outside my office.
Alone.
No attorney.
No driver.
No armor.
She looked older than she had a week earlier.
“I need to speak with Elena,” she said.
“No.”
“Alexander—”
“No.”
Her eyes flashed.
“I want to apologize.”
“That’s her decision.”
“Then ask her.”
“Why now?”
My mother looked away.
It was the first time I had ever seen Beatrice Vance struggle to speak.
“Because I found something.”
She opened her handbag.
Inside was a small box.
“What is that?”
“Elena left it at my house six years ago.”
My heart began pounding.
Beatrice opened the box.
Inside were four tiny silver bracelets.
Newborn bracelets.
Each engraved with a name.
Owen.
Lucas.
Sophie.
Grace.
I stared.
“How did you get these?”
My mother’s voice broke.
“She sent them after they were born.”
I looked up.
“You knew their names?”
Beatrice began to cry.
And suddenly I realized the lie was even bigger than I thought.
May you like
She hadn’t discovered her grandchildren three months ago.
She had known about them from the beginning.
