And Jemma?
He finally understood why she’d ended things a year ago.Two reasons, actually—both devastating.She’d found out she was pregnant, and she hadn’t believed he’d want her to keep the baby.So she’d pushed him away first, preemptively protecting herself the only way she knew how: by breaking her own heart before he could.
She’d been trying to survive.
And then there was the final blow—the story Jasper had told him.About Jemma’s mother.About a woman choosing to die so her children wouldn’t drown in debt.
What kind of hell must that have been?Either live and force her kids to endure a crushing future of unpaid bills—or let go, and trust they’d survive without her.
There hadn’t been a good choice.Just one kind of pain over another.
Saif’s chest felt tight, as though the air was thinner here, as if grief had somehow drained the oxygen from the room.He thought of his college friend who’d survived cancer and still described chemo like crawling across broken glass every day.It wasn’t just the physical agony—it was the emotional weight, the way it hollowed you out.
And Jemma’s mother had walked into that storm and decided it wasn’t worth surviving if it cost her children their future.
The sharp voice that cut through the silence made Saif flinch.
“What the hell are you doing back here?”
Rylan stepped out of the library, holding a thick report in one hand.His blazer was wrinkled, his tie crooked, and the look on his face was part exasperation, part concern.
But Saif didn’t snap at him.Not Rylan.They were family—more than that.
“I’m a father,” Saif said.The words burst out of him like a confession, loud and raw, as though saying them aloud would help him believe them.
Rylan froze.“Wait, what?”His gaze darted around.“Where’s the baby?”
Saif sighed and planted his fists on his hips, grounding himself.“I… didn’t take her.”
“Youwhat?”Rylan’s voice rose, disbelief sharpening his tone.“Why the hell not?The womanliedto you!”
“She didn’t lie,” Saif shot back, voice low but firm.
Rylan scoffed, stepping forward.“A lie of omission is still a lie.”
Saif opened his mouth to argue, then snapped it shut.Rylan wasn’t wrong.But this wasn’t black and white.It wasn’t clean or simple.And that was what made it hurt even more.
Instead of answering, he brushed past Rylan into the library, where blueprints and reports had taken over his desk.He didn’t care.None of it mattered right now.
Rylan followed, setting his report aside.He approached slowly, then placed a hand on Saif’s shoulder—firm, steady.
“Talk to me,” he said gently.
Saif looked at his cousin, his lips parting—then closing again.He didn’t know how to start.How do you explain the kind of day that rips the ground out from under your feet?
Rylan pushed a glass of scotch into his hand.“Sit,” he said, his tone brooking no argument, and then dropped into the armchair across from him.
So Saif sat.And he talked.
The story came out in fragments at first—jagged, uneven.He started with the baby, the way her tiny face looked so much like his it made his stomach twist.Her dark hair.That perfect, rosebud mouth.Her soft little fingers curled into fists.
Then he told Rylan about Jemma.About the way she’d looked—strong and fragile all at once.How she hadn’t defended herself, hadn’t begged.Just held her head high and let him rage.Like sheexpectedhim to walk away.
He told his cousin about Jasper.About the kid who had stood in front of him with nothing but courage and pain and asked himnotto destroy his sister’s life.
And he told him about their mother.
He didn’t share the intimate parts of his relationship with Jemma.That was his.Theirs.But he said enough to make Rylan understand.
