Vance
Can’t wait.
I set my phone down and fell back against the pillows, grinning like an idiot. Yesterday at this time I hadn’t even known she existed, and now she was all I could think about. I didn’t want to get ahead of myself, but we seemed so suited. Dare I let myself hope?
I made coffee, already planning the picnic in my head. Fresh baguette from the bakery, soft cheese from the specialty shop, a handful of figs, maybe prosciutto. A bottle of rosé—something pale and easy, made for warm evenings and salt air.
My phone rang.
I glanced at the screen, expecting Dorian or my mother. It wasn’t. The name that appeared made my entire body go cold.
Nicole Prescott.
My ex-wife.
I stared at the phone, heart pounding, finger hovering above the screen. She never called. Ever. Six years of silence—letters unanswered, voicemails ignored, messages left unread. And now, out of nowhere, she was calling me.
Something was wrong.
I answered. “Nicole.”
“Vance.” Her voice was the same—sharp, clipped, still carrying that edge of irritation she’d perfected during our marriage. “I need to talk to you about Margot.”
Everything else fell away—the apartment, the coffee, the plans for tonight.
“Is she okay?” My voice came out strangled. “Is she hurt?”
“She’s fine. Physically.” A pause. “But things have changed, and we need to discuss arrangements.”
Arrangements.
“What kind of arrangements?”
“Can you meet me today? There’s a coffee shop near?—”
“No. Tell me now. What’s going on?”
She sighed, that long-suffering sound I remembered too well. “My mother passed away. And I’m getting remarried.”
“I’m sorry. And congratulations?”
“Don’t be like that. This is good news. Derek is wonderful—stable, successful. Everything I needed after …” She trailed off, the implication clear. After you.
“What does this have to do with Margot?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Derek and I are starting fresh. Building a life together. And he’s been very clear that he’s not interested in raising someone else’s child.”
The bottom dropped out of my stomach.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I think it’s time for Margot to live with you. Full-time. Permanently.”
For a beat, I forgot how to breathe. Six years of fighting, begging, pleading for even a phone call—and now she was handing my daughter over like an afterthought.
“Vance? Are you there?”
