Chapter 3

Elena didn't hear from Lucas's attorneys.

Not the next day. Not the day after.

On the third morning, Ethan had a nosebleed that wouldn't stop for forty minutes. She held him over the motel bathroom sink, pressing a towel to his face, watching the water run pink.

"Mom, am I gonna be okay?"

"You're going to be fine," she lied, and her voice didn't even waver.

She called Martin that afternoon.

"He's stonewalling me. His legal team hasn't reached out."

Martin sighed. "Elena, Lucas Blackwell is worth eleven billion dollars. Men like that don't get pressured—they apply pressure. You can't force him to take a medical test."

"Then what am I supposed to do? Watch my son die?"

"There might be another way. His ex-wife, Victoria Langley—the divorce was brutal. Word is she's looking for ammunition against him. If she found out he abandoned a child—"

"No." Elena's response was immediate. "I won't turn Ethan into a weapon."

"Then you need to get to Lucas directly. Not through his office. Not through lawyers."

"How?"

Martin paused. "The Blackwell Foundation gala is this Saturday at The Pierre. Every year, Lucas makes a personal appearance. It's his biggest PR event—cameras everywhere. He can't hide behind assistants at his own party."

Elena looked at the medical bills spread across the motel bed. She had $340 left in her checking account.

"I can't exactly walk into a black-tie gala in a thrift store blazer, Martin."

"Leave that to me. I know someone."

Saturday night, Elena stood in front of the bathroom mirror in a borrowed black dress that fit like it was made for her. Martin's contact—a stylist who owed him a favor—had worked a small miracle.

She barely recognized herself. The woman in the mirror had sharp cheekbones, steady eyes, and the kind of quiet fury that could pass for elegance.

The babysitter—a nursing student Martin had vetted—arrived at seven. Ethan was already asleep, his breathing shallow but steady.

Elena kissed his forehead, grabbed the clutch that held nothing but her phone and the medical file, and stepped into the Manhattan night.

The Pierre Hotel glittered like a jewel box. Town cars lined the block. Women in designer gowns floated up the steps on the arms of men who owned pieces of the city.

Elena walked in alone.

The ballroom was a sea of crystal chandeliers and champagne flutes. She spotted Lucas almost immediately—he stood near the far wall, surrounded by a cluster of executives, his smile polished and professional.

He looked untouchable.

She took a glass of champagne she wouldn't drink and began moving through the crowd, waiting for an opening.

It came twenty minutes later, when Lucas broke from the group and walked toward a private terrace.

Elena followed.

The terrace overlooked Central Park, the trees lit with strings of white lights. Lucas stood at the railing, his back to her, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

"You're persistent," he said without turning around. "I'll give you that."

"You knew I was here."

"My security flagged you the moment you walked in." He turned to face her. In the dim light, his expression was unreadable. "You clean up well."

"And you're still a coward."

The word landed. She saw his jaw tighten.

"I read the file," he said quietly.

Her heart lurched. "And?"

"And I have questions." He set his glass on the railing. "You kept the child. The contract gave you the option to surrender him to the state. Why didn't you?"

"Because he's not a contract clause. He's a person."

"A person I never agreed to raise."

"A person who will die without you."

Lucas was silent for a long moment. The sounds of the gala drifted through the glass doors—laughter, music, the clink of glasses. A world that had nothing to do with a sick boy in a Queens motel.

"If I do this," he said slowly, "I want a paternity test first."

"Fine."

"And I want to see him."

Elena's breath caught. Of all the things she had prepared for—refusal, lawyers, threats—she hadn't prepared for this.

"Why?"

Lucas's eyes met hers, and for the first time, she saw something behind the armor. Not warmth. Not yet. But something cracked, something leaking.

"Because if I'm going to save a child's life, I want to know whose life I'm saving."

Before Elena could respond, a voice cut through the night air like a blade.

"Lucas, darling, there you are."

Elena turned.

A woman stepped onto the terrace—tall, striking, draped in emerald silk. Her smile was razor-sharp and aimed directly at Elena.

Victoria Langley.

His ex-wife.

Victoria's gaze swept over Elena with the precision of a scalpel. "And who is this?"