Chapter 3

The executive floor smelled like coffee, polished wood, and money pretending it did not need to announce itself.

Downstairs, Northstar worked under fluorescent panels and whiteboards stained by old markers. Up here, every surface was quiet. Thick carpet swallowed Noah's footsteps. Framed city photographs hung in a hallway wide enough for people to pass without brushing sleeves. Even the phones rang softly, as if volume were a thing only smaller companies needed.

Noah noticed the carpet first. He bent his knees and bounced once. I tightened my hand around his.

"No running," I murmured.

"I was testing if the floor is squishy."

"It is. Quietly."

A receptionist stood as soon as Noah and I stepped out.

"Ma'am, do you have an appointment?"

"No."

Her polite smile stayed in place. "Then I'm sorry, you can't go in."

I set the cracked pendant on the desk.

"Please tell Mr. Charles Wexler that his grandson is here."

The smile disappeared.

"Excuse me?"

I lifted Noah onto my hip. He wrapped one arm around my neck and held his sketchbook against my shoulder.

"Tell Charles Wexler," I said, "that Ethan Wexler's son is here."

Ten minutes later, the doors to the chairman's office opened.

A man with silver hair stepped out. He wore a dark gray suit and leaned on a cane, but there was nothing fragile about him. His eyes were deep-set, steady, and tired in a way power could not hide.

Charles Wexler looked at me first.

Then he looked at Noah.

The cane shifted in his hand.

Noah studied him right back.

Then he asked, very seriously, "Do you have cookies?"

The receptionist made a small sound.

Charles Wexler's face changed before he could stop it. His mouth tightened. His eyes shone.

"Bring some," he said to the receptionist, his voice rough. "Whatever we have."

His office was enormous, but Noah was interested only in the low table by the couch. I set him there with his sketchbook. He accepted two shortbread cookies from a trembling assistant and began drawing as if chairmen appeared in our lives every day.

I placed the separation agreement, the pendant, and Noah's birth certificate on Charles Wexler's desk.

"Mr. Wexler," I said. "Your subsidiary says bringing a child to work during an emergency is a serious violation. I was fired for it today. Since Northstar can't tolerate him, your grandson can be your responsibility."

Charles did not pick up the papers at once.

That was the first thing I respected about him. He did not perform outrage for me. He did not grab the birth certificate and announce blood before proof. He looked at the documents, then at Noah, then at me, as if he understood that every wrong move in the next minute would cost a child something.

Power often rushed to claim. Charles Wexler, for all his shock, held still.

He looked at Noah for a long time.

Long enough for Noah to finish one cookie, open his sketchbook, and draw a little dinosaur with a large square head. Then he drew a bigger dinosaur beside it, with glasses.

"Grandpa," Noah asked, "is your hair white because you lived a really long time?"

The assistant stared at the carpet.

Charles lowered himself to one knee in front of the couch.

"What's your name?"

"Noah."

"Noah what?"

"Noah Ellis." He looked at me for permission, then added, "Mom says Noah means rest. She wanted me to have a peaceful life."

Charles closed his eyes for a second.

When he opened them, his hand shook as he reached toward Noah's hair. He stopped before touching him.

Noah leaned forward and let him pat the curls.

"Do you know my dad?" Noah asked.

The room went still.

Charles swallowed. "Yes."

"Then why doesn't he visit me?"

My chest tightened.

Noah had never asked me that. He knew other children had dads who came to school events and carried backpacks and made bad pancakes on weekends. He had watched quietly. He had never demanded the empty place be filled.

Now, in front of the first family member he had ever met, he asked.

Charles took a breath.

"Because he has been sick."

"For a long time?"

"A long time."

"Is he brave when he gets shots?"

Charles looked away.

"Probably not as brave as you."

Noah considered that. "I can teach him."

I turned my face toward the window.

Charles stood slowly. The chairman returned to his posture, but not fully. Something in him had cracked open.

"Ms. Ellis," he said, "we will need a DNA test."

"Of course."

"I will also investigate what happened downstairs."

I looked at him. "I'm not here to sell you a child."

He went still.

"Noah is my son," I said. "I have raised him for four years. If the Wexler family wants to acknowledge him, we can discuss it. But no one is taking him from me. I don't want a payout. I want three things."

Charles's eyes sharpened.

"Name them."

"First, a formal investigation into Vanessa Reed's wrongful termination and her attempt to take my project. Second, Little Harbor keeps my name on it. Third, if your family wants a relationship with Noah, it starts with respect for his life and mine. You do not appear when you feel guilty and disappear when it is inconvenient."

Charles was quiet.

Then he said, "You are clearer than I expected."

I smiled without warmth. "A woman who isn't clear doesn't raise a child alone."

Noah held up his sketchbook.

The larger dinosaur wore glasses. Above it, in crooked letters, he had written GRANDPA DINO.

Charles gripped his cane.

"Ms. Ellis," he said, "you have my word on all three."