“Mmm.” Tara didn’t look convinced. She crossed to where Christina stood with Violet and brushed a gentle finger over the baby’s cheek. “She’s getting so big. And her eyes—they’re really starting to change, aren’t they?”
Christina’s stomach dropped. “Mom?—”
“I’m not asking.” Tara held up a hand. “I told you I wouldn’t push, and I won’t. But something’s wrong, and I need to know if you’re okay.”
Violet started fussing, her small face scrunching. Christina bounced her automatically, grateful for the distraction.
“There’s a man,” she said finally. “Staying at the inn. He’s been leaving notes.”
Her mother’s expression sharpened. “What kind of notes?”
“He just wants to talk. That’s what they say.” Christina moved to the kitchen table, where three folded pieces of paper sat in a pile. She’d meant to throw them away, but hadn’t been able to make herself do it. “He keeps showing up. At the cottage, on the lake path, everywhere I go. He’s not threatening, just... there.”
Tara picked up one of the notes and unfolded it. Christina watched her mother’s face as she read.
I just want to talk. Please. I’m not going anywhere.
“Do you know this man?”
The question hung between them. Christina looked at her daughter—at the dark hair nothing like hers, at the eyes that turned greener every day, at the features that would someday make the connection undeniable.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I know him.”
“Christina.” Her mother’s voice was gentle but firm. “What’s going on?”
The words had been locked inside her for months. Secrets and fear and worst-case scenarios every time she closed her eyes—lawyers in expensive suits, custody battles dragging through courts, Violet torn away to a world of paparazzi and privilege. Christina reduced to a footnote. The gold-digger. The one-night stand.
“Can you call everyone?” Her voice cracked. “Ally and Colton, Evan and Emily, Will, Ryan. I need to tell you all something, and I can only say it once.”
Her mother studied her for a long moment. Then she nodded and pulled out her phone.
They gathered in the cottage’s small living room as the afternoon light slanted through the windows. Ally sat on the loveseat with Colton beside her, their shoulders touching. Evan and Emily had taken the sofa, Emily holding a drowsy Grace. Ryan sat cross-legged on the floor near Tara, while Will stood by the fireplace.
Christina sat in the rocking chair, Violet nursing beneath a blanket. The room smelled of her mother’s chili warming on the stove and the coffee Will had started when he arrived.
“Thanks for coming.” Her voice came out steadier than expected. “I know this is strange. I know I’ve been hiding something, and you’ve all been patient. Not asking questions. Giving me space.”
“We’re family.” Ally’s voice was soft. “We don’t need to know everything.”
“But you need to know this.” Christina took a breath. “Violet’s father. I’ve never told any of you who he is.”
The room went still.
“You don’t have to—” Tara started.
“Yes, I do. Because he’s here. In Blueberry Hill. Staying at the inn.”
Ryan straightened. “That guy who keeps coming by? The one who looks like he stepped out of a magazine?”
Christina almost laughed. “Yeah. That guy.”
“Who is he?” Evan’s voice was careful—his business voice, the one he used when assessing a situation.
She looked at her family. The people who had taken her in when everything fell apart, who had helped her through pregnancy and labor and sleepless nights. Who had never once made her feel judged.
Colton stood. “Marco?” He ran a hand through his hair. “You’re the unforgettable girl from Miami?”
Christina nodded. “Yes. Your friend. Marco Castellano.”
