Chapter 6
He chose a private restaurant, no paparazzi, no audience.
When I arrived, Dominic was already seated, his usually commanding posture replaced by something I'd never seen before — uncertainty.
He stood when I entered, pulling out my chair.
I sat without acknowledging the gesture.
"Talk," I said. "Your hour starts now."
He didn't sit immediately. He stood there, looking at me as if memorizing every change.
"You look..." he started.
"Different? Successful? Alive?" I offered.
"Incredible," he finished quietly, then sat down.
A long breath escaped him.
"Six months after you left, I found discrepancies in Vivienne's story," he began. "Small things at first. She didn't remember our anniversary correctly. She confused details about trips we'd taken."
"And?"
"I hired a private investigator." His voice tightened. "The DNA results — the lab that processed them had been paid off. $2 million, routed through three shell companies."
"So you found out she was a fraud."
"Not immediately. The PI disappeared. His office was burned down." Dominic's hands clenched. "When I confronted her, she had a contingency plan. Evidence — fabricated — that I had been involved in tax fraud. Enough to trigger a federal investigation."
"She blackmailed you."
"For three years," he confirmed. "I couldn't touch her. Every time I tried, she'd release another piece of manufactured evidence. My board was compromised. Two of my directors were on her payroll."
I studied his face.
The tiredness I'd noticed wasn't just age. It was the erosion of a man trapped in his own empire.
"Why didn't you go to the authorities?"
"I did. Twice. Both times, the evidence vanished before it reached a prosecutor."
"And you didn't think to reach out to me? To warn me?"
His eyes met mine, filled with something devastating.
"I thought you were safer without me. I thought if she knew I was looking for you, she'd target you too."
"She already had," I said. "The morning after you divorced me, every newspaper in the country ran hit pieces. I was fired, blacklisted, and publicly humiliated."
Dominic closed his eyes.
"I know. I found out later. Every article was planted by her PR team."
"And the pregnancy?" My voice dropped. "You called our baby a bastard."
The blood drained from his face.
"Serena—"
"You said it wasn't yours. You chose her word over mine without a second thought."
"I was wrong," he whispered. "I was so goddamn wrong."
"Those are just words, Dominic."
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a worn photograph.
It was me. Taken from a distance, in London, pushing a double stroller through Hyde Park.
"I found you," he said. "Eighteen months ago. I hired someone to confirm you were safe."
My blood went cold.
"You watched me?"
"No. I confirmed you were alive and healthy, and I backed off." His voice shook. "I saw the stroller. I knew."
The world tilted.
"You knew about the twins."
"I knew you had children. I didn't know if they were mine. I told myself they couldn't be. Because if they were—"
He stopped, his throat working.
"If they were mine, then I hadn't just destroyed you. I'd abandoned my own children."
I stood up, my chair scraping loudly.
"You don't get to cry about this, Dominic. You don't get to play the tortured father."
"I'm not playing anything." He stood too. "Serena, I will spend the rest of my life atoning for this. But I need to know — are they mine?"
I looked at him for a long time.
"Yes," I said. "They're yours. And they've never once asked about you."
The sound that came from him wasn't quite human.
"Their names are Lucas and Lily. They're three. And they are brilliant, and kind, and strong."
"And they are mine. Not yours. You lost that right when you threw us away."
I picked up my coat.
"Your hour is up."
When I arrived, Dominic was already seated, his usually commanding posture replaced by something I'd never seen before — uncertainty.
He stood when I entered, pulling out my chair.
I sat without acknowledging the gesture.
"Talk," I said. "Your hour starts now."
He didn't sit immediately. He stood there, looking at me as if memorizing every change.
"You look..." he started.
"Different? Successful? Alive?" I offered.
"Incredible," he finished quietly, then sat down.
A long breath escaped him.
"Six months after you left, I found discrepancies in Vivienne's story," he began. "Small things at first. She didn't remember our anniversary correctly. She confused details about trips we'd taken."
"And?"
"I hired a private investigator." His voice tightened. "The DNA results — the lab that processed them had been paid off. $2 million, routed through three shell companies."
"So you found out she was a fraud."
"Not immediately. The PI disappeared. His office was burned down." Dominic's hands clenched. "When I confronted her, she had a contingency plan. Evidence — fabricated — that I had been involved in tax fraud. Enough to trigger a federal investigation."
"She blackmailed you."
"For three years," he confirmed. "I couldn't touch her. Every time I tried, she'd release another piece of manufactured evidence. My board was compromised. Two of my directors were on her payroll."
I studied his face.
The tiredness I'd noticed wasn't just age. It was the erosion of a man trapped in his own empire.
"Why didn't you go to the authorities?"
"I did. Twice. Both times, the evidence vanished before it reached a prosecutor."
"And you didn't think to reach out to me? To warn me?"
His eyes met mine, filled with something devastating.
"I thought you were safer without me. I thought if she knew I was looking for you, she'd target you too."
"She already had," I said. "The morning after you divorced me, every newspaper in the country ran hit pieces. I was fired, blacklisted, and publicly humiliated."
Dominic closed his eyes.
"I know. I found out later. Every article was planted by her PR team."
"And the pregnancy?" My voice dropped. "You called our baby a bastard."
The blood drained from his face.
"Serena—"
"You said it wasn't yours. You chose her word over mine without a second thought."
"I was wrong," he whispered. "I was so goddamn wrong."
"Those are just words, Dominic."
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a worn photograph.
It was me. Taken from a distance, in London, pushing a double stroller through Hyde Park.
"I found you," he said. "Eighteen months ago. I hired someone to confirm you were safe."
My blood went cold.
"You watched me?"
"No. I confirmed you were alive and healthy, and I backed off." His voice shook. "I saw the stroller. I knew."
The world tilted.
"You knew about the twins."
"I knew you had children. I didn't know if they were mine. I told myself they couldn't be. Because if they were—"
He stopped, his throat working.
"If they were mine, then I hadn't just destroyed you. I'd abandoned my own children."
I stood up, my chair scraping loudly.
"You don't get to cry about this, Dominic. You don't get to play the tortured father."
"I'm not playing anything." He stood too. "Serena, I will spend the rest of my life atoning for this. But I need to know — are they mine?"
I looked at him for a long time.
"Yes," I said. "They're yours. And they've never once asked about you."
The sound that came from him wasn't quite human.
"Their names are Lucas and Lily. They're three. And they are brilliant, and kind, and strong."
"And they are mine. Not yours. You lost that right when you threw us away."
I picked up my coat.
"Your hour is up."