Chapter 1 - THE QUESTION THAT SILENCED CHRISTMAS
Olivia tilted her head and looked up at Marcus with complete innocence.
“Are you our dad?”
Nobody breathed.
Not Marcus.
Not Patricia.
Not the beautiful woman in the red dress.
Not the dozen relatives gathered around Patricia Reynolds’s enormous Christmas tree.
Marcus’s hand remained suspended beside the engagement-ring box that had fallen onto the carpet.
His gray eyes moved from Olivia to me.
“Samantha…”
There it was.
My name.
Eight years since I had heard him say it.
Eight years since he told me my pregnancy was impossible.
Eight years since he looked at me across our apartment and said, “Stop trying to trap me.”
I placed one hand on Olivia’s shoulder.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
Marcus went white.
Olivia blinked.
“Yes what?”
I looked directly at him.
“He is your biological father.”
Patricia made a sharp sound.
“No.”
Every head turned toward her.
She gripped the edge of the entry table.
“Samantha, whatever game you’re playing—”
“Patricia.”
A man’s voice came from behind the Christmas tree.
Henry Reynolds stepped into view.
Marcus’s father looked older than I remembered.
Much older.
A cane in one hand.
Silver hair.
A face weakened slightly by the stroke he had suffered four years earlier.
But his eyes were clear.
They moved over Noah.
Ethan.
Sophia.
Olivia.
Then he stared at his wife.
“Patricia.”
She said nothing.
Henry’s voice dropped.
“You told me the babies died.”
My children looked at me.
I felt the floor shift beneath my feet.
“What?”
Marcus turned toward his mother.
“What did Dad just say?”
Patricia’s face lost every trace of color.
Henry moved closer.
“Eight years ago, after Samantha disappeared, you told me the pregnancy ended.”
Marcus stared at him.
“She was never pregnant.”
I laughed.
Not loudly.
Just enough.
“Still doing that?”
Marcus looked at me.
“I had medical proof.”
“You had a piece of paper.”
“I had a fertility report.”
The woman in the red dress finally spoke.
“Marcus.”
Her voice was cautious.
“Maybe we should let her explain.”
He seemed to remember she existed.
“Samantha, this is Natalie.”
His fiancée.
Of course.
Natalie removed her hand from his arm.
I looked at her.
“This isn’t about you.”
“I’m beginning to realize that.”
Good.
No hostility.
At least one adult in the room was thinking.
Noah stepped closer to me.
He was the protective one.
Always had been.
“Mom, are we staying?”
I looked at my four children.
“We stay only if you want.”
Ethan shrugged.
“I want pie.”
Several relatives made strangled noises.
Sophia whispered:
“I want to meet Grandpa.”
Henry’s eyes filled instantly.
He crouched as much as his bad knee allowed.
“I would very much like to meet you too.”
That nearly broke me.
Marcus watched his father embrace four children he had believed dead.
Then he turned back to me.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I actually laughed.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I changed my number, but my attorney—”
“I sent seventeen certified letters.”
His face changed.
“What?”
“Pregnancy records. Ultrasound reports. Hospital notices. Birth announcements.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I received nothing.”
“I know.”
I opened my handbag.
I had not come unprepared.
Eight years of raising quadruplets teaches a woman many things.
One of them is never trusting a family named Reynolds without documentation.
I removed a thin folder.
Certified-mail receipts.
One after another.
Delivered to Patricia Reynolds’s Boulder address.
Several to Marcus’s Chicago office.
Three to his divorce attorney.
One to Reynolds Industries headquarters.
Marcus picked up the first receipt.
The delivery signature was clearly visible.
P. REYNOLDS.
His eyes lifted slowly.
Patricia stepped backward.
“That proves only that something arrived.”
“Keep reading.”
The second packet had been returned.
ADDRESSEE REFUSED.
The third:
FORWARDING PROHIBITED.
The hospital notification after my emergency C-section showed four attempts to reach Marcus’s office.
Someone answered twice.
Someone told the nurse:
Mr. Reynolds does not wish to receive information regarding Ms. Cole or any alleged children.
Marcus stared at the page.
“I never said that.”
“I believe you.”
His eyes snapped toward me.
That surprised him.
“But you did something else.”
“What?”
“You told everyone around you that you did not want to hear from me.”
Silence.
His jaw tightened.
Memory arrived.
I saw it.
Then Natalie asked quietly:
“Why did you think she was lying?”
Marcus looked exhausted.
“Because a doctor told me I couldn’t father children.”
I stared.
“What doctor?”
“Dr. Alan Pierce.”
I knew the name.
Patricia’s longtime family physician.
Marcus continued.
“I had testing done two weeks before Samantha told me she was pregnant. The report said I was infertile.”
I looked at Patricia.
She was staring at the floor.
Henry followed my gaze.
Then he whispered:
“Oh, God.”
Marcus turned.
“Dad?”
Henry looked at his wife.
“Patricia, what did you do?”
Before she could answer, a man in a gray suit appeared from the library.
I recognized him vaguely.
Walter Greene.
The Reynolds family trust attorney.
He looked at the children.
Then at me.
Then at the folder in my hand.
His face became alarmed.
“Mrs. Cole—”
“It’s Ms. Cole.”
“Of course.”
He swallowed.
“There is something we need to address immediately.”
Marcus looked at him.
“What?”
Walter glanced toward Patricia.
She shook her head once.
Tiny.
I saw it.
So did Henry.
Walter ignored her.
“If these children are Marcus’s legal descendants…”
His voice became careful.
“…then the Reynolds Continuity Trust has been administered incorrectly for eight years.”
Marcus stared.
“What does that mean?”
Walter looked at me.
“It means their existence changes who legally controls the largest voting block in Reynolds Industries.”
The room went silent again.
Then he delivered the sentence Patricia clearly had spent eight years trying to prevent.
May you like
“Until the children reach adulthood, that voting authority belongs to their custodial parent.”
Everyone looked at me.
