The mirror catches me in the overhead light. I look like hell. My collar’s open, my tie askew, eyes bloodshot and too bright. I press both hands to the sink until my knuckles go white. My pulse pounds so loud it fills the tiny space.
Thirteen and a half billion dollars. Gone.
Because I was too trusting. Too slow. Too distracted trying to play husband, father, brother, savior—pretending I wasn’t already sinking.
My throat burns. The wordfailurekeeps circling like a vulture. I twist the faucet and let the water run until the basin fogs with steam. The splash against my face is sharp, cold, useless. Droplets scatter across the mirror, breaking my reflection into pieces I can’t put back together.
“What the fuck are you doing, Vincent?” My voice sounds small in the metal walls.
My chest tightens. Breath catches halfway. I brace myself on the sink, wedding band biting deep into my skin. The ring leaves a red dent that stings. Maybe that’s fitting—something to mark the damage I keep pretending isn’t there.
You built this family. You made yourself the center of it. And now? You’ll drag them all down with you. Let Willow see the cracks. Let Damien and Cast watch you fail.
The knock on the door makes me flinch.
“Mr. Beaumont?” The attendant’s voice is soft, cautious. “We need you seated for takeoff.”
I swallow, force my voice steady. “Okay.”
The water still runs. I splash my face one more time and watch the drops trail down my jaw like sweat. Then I reach for a towel, drag it across my skin until the redness fades, until I almost look like a man in control.
When I open the door, the hum of the engines swallows me. I nod to the attendant and take my seat by the window. The plane starts to move, lights blurring against the dark.
My hands won’t stop shaking. I shove them into my pockets and stare out at the night.
All I can think is how thoroughly, irreparably screwed I am.
3
WILLOW
The drivehome unspools along a ribbon of dark road, the car filled with the soft snores and half-dreamed murmurs of the kids in the back. Cast sits beside them, restless and simmering, because he canfeelthat Damien and I have just fucked—despite the fact that we already had that morning. His jaw works as he stares out the fogged window, but his reflection burns in the rearview mirror, eyes locking with mine, hot and accusing.
Damien’s hand rests loose on the wheel, knuckles split from a fight he didn’t start but made sure to finish. The dashboard glow paints him in soft blues and greens, his focus steady on the road ahead. Outside, the cold has settled—a rare Texas frost silvering the medians—while inside, the heater hums, sighing warmth into the cabin until the windows bloom with fog where the kids press their breath.
In the very back seat, Elise fights sleep, forcing her head up every time it lulls to the side. Her lashes are clumped with melted flurries from the arena’s icy air, her cheeks round and pink from excitement.
“One more song,” she mumbles, already drooping against Penny’s shoulder.
“Only if it’s the goal horn,” Theo says, and then makes the noise himself, low and obnoxious and perfect.
“Ugh, you’resoloud. Papa needs his ears to drive,” Rose announces, clamping her hand over Theo’s mouth.
“Papa or Pops?” Theo mumbles around her fingers.
“Papa,” Rose and I answer together, and I can’t help smiling into my scarf. The kids have their own little language for us—Papafor Damien,Popsfor Cast, andDaddyfor Vincent, the names sorted in their minds like rules of a game only they understand. I, of course, am always Mommy, Mama depending on who is calling me.
Damien glances over, grin tugging to one side. His voice is still rough from shouting on the ice and laughing in the locker room. “You good?”
I’m both buzzing and boneless, throat raw from screaming, fingers sticky-sweet from hot chocolate, skin still humming from the way he looked up into the stands andfoundme like he always does. Beneath all of it, a candle-glow secret I haven’t said out loud yet burns steady and private low in my belly. I press my palm there through the drape of his jersey and let the thought warm me.
“I’m good,” I whisper.
“Good,” he says softly, and squeezes my knee once with his rough, warm hand.
We turn into the long driveway like slipping into a memory. The house waits in a halo of soft light—the oversized wreath the kids insisted on hanging crooked, the path lined with flickering lanterns, the big windows glowing gold.
I never get used to the feeling of opening the door and breathing inhome—the layered warmth of it: pine and sugar, a faint breath of cedar from the garland draped along the banister, the clean hint of laundry soap and lemon oil, and the soft, steadythump of our golden Labrador, Scooter, his tail greeting the door before I can.
