Part 2
A woman I had once planned to marry.
Claire Whitmore.
Her name struck me so hard that, for a moment, the entire lobby seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
I stared at the envelope in my hand while two little boys—my impossible sons, my impossible reflection—stood inches from me, smiling as if the world had finally corrected itself.
“Mama said you’d look confused,” Noah whispered.
Lucas nodded solemnly. “She said grown-ups get confused when miracles happen.”
Miracles.
I had stopped believing in them years ago.
My hand closed around the envelope.
“Come with me,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended.
The boys obeyed immediately. That trust hit me harder than suspicion ever could have. They followed me past security, past my silent employees, past Margaret’s pale face at the elevator bank.
Her eyes darted to the boys, then to me.
“Mr. Sterling…”
“Clear my morning,” I said.
“It’s already cleared.”
Of course it was. Margaret always knew when the world was burning before anyone smelled smoke.
Inside the elevator, Lucas pressed himself against my side. Noah stared up at the mirrored ceiling.
“This is a tall building,” Noah said.
“Yes.”
“Do you own all of it?”
“Most of it.”
Lucas looked impressed. “Mama said you build things.”
“I do.”
“What kind?”
I swallowed. “Things that help families.”
Noah smiled like that made perfect sense. “Then you were practicing.”
I turned away before they could see my face break.
When we reached the top floor, Margaret led us into my private office. The boys immediately drifted toward the window, pressing their hands to the glass as Manhattan stretched beneath them.
“Whoa,” Lucas breathed.
“Tiny taxis,” Noah said.
I stood behind my desk with the envelope still unopened.
For Alexander Only.
The handwriting was Claire’s. No doubt. No imitation could capture the slight forward slant, the elegant pressure, the way she made the letter A look like it was leaning into a secret.
I hadn’t seen that handwriting since the morning I woke to an empty apartment and a note that said only:
I’m sorry. Don’t look for me.
I had looked anyway.
For months.
Private investigators. Old friends. Hospitals. Airports. Her family estate in Vermont. Nothing.
Claire had vanished so completely it was as if she had stepped out of the world.
And now her children were standing in my office.