We step into a small room—three chairs, a narrow table, too-bright lighting. A space made for waiting.
He turns to me, gently tilts my chin until I’m looking into his eyes.
And I fall apart all over again.
Because what I see there isn’t Spencer Devereaux, the confident billionaire, the man who commands rooms and negotiates million-dollar deals.
What I see is worry. Uncertainty. Fear.
Seeing the matching ache in his heart makes me pull him to me this time. I squeeze him, burying my face in his chest, holding on like webothdepend on it.
He wraps his arms around me without hesitation, grounding me with the strength I see he's barely holding onto himself.
How long we stand like that, I don’t know. But it’s a long time. We don’t speak. We don’t move. We just breathe.
It’s me who breaks the silence.
“I’m so sorry, Spencer,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “So sorry.”
But I can feel him shaking his head as he says, “Shhh. Not now. Not here. Please.”
Then he kisses the top of my head. And I realize in that moment, his anger has not been anger. It has been heartbreak.
I’ve broken his heart.
So we don’t talk. I don’t say anything about Esme. He doesn’t ask.
It’s as if saying her name out loud might tilt something in the wrong direction. As if this fragile moment—this tiny, silent agreement between us—is what’s keeping our world from falling apart.
I wonder if he’s thinking, like I am, that if we just getthisone little part right—in this one little room—then maybe the rest will turn out okay, too. But I don’t know what getting it right looks like. And I don’t think he does either.
Eventually, we sit down, side by side in the stiff,plastic chairs. We join our hands together, fingers laced. Steady. Firm.
“What you did to get her here. . .” I want him to know how grateful I am, but the words unravel in my throat. I can’t go any further without crying.
Maybe he can’t either, because he just shakes his head, squeezes my hand, and says, “Don’t.”
I’m not sure what he means. Don’t talk? Don’t thank me? Don’t get me started?
But it doesn’t matter. Because he’s holding my hand, and that part—I understand.
He’s here.
THIRTY-EIGHT
SPENCER
Eventually, the door opens.
Dr. Levinson looks older in person—gray at the temples, balding, a little portly, and carrying the unmistakable weight of too many years and too many nights like this. But his eyes are kind.
I’m on my feet before the door finishes swinging open, both eager and terrified.
“Spencer,” Dr. Levinson says, tipping his head in greeting.
I shake his hand, hoping he can read my gratitude. An anchor of gratitude I can’t quite say aloud.
“This is Rhea,” I say, turning toward her. “Esme’s mom.”
