“He wanted to see you. Talk to you. See the kids. And, of course, ask you to take down the blog post.”
“I was thinking about that earlier,” Cecily says, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s drawing more and more attention. My editor even offered to turn it into an article, using the post as a hook. I just don’t want this spreading any further… to the kids. That was never my intention. I wasn’t trying to make a scene.”
I crouch in front of her.
“You’re not taking anything down. Thousands of women are reading that post and feeling seen, heard, represented. If it’s bothering him, that’s because the truth hurts. This is your truth, and he doesn’t get to erase it.”
I grin, just a little.
“Besides, after months of radio silence, the traffic’s finally turning into real money from ads. Like that singer said—'Las mujeres ya no lloran, las mujeres facturan’.”
She gives me a small smile. I kiss her cheek before sitting across from her.
Now comes the hard part.
“Ethan unlocked my tablet using facial recognition while I was napping on the couch earlier.” I watch her face drain of color and know she already understands what’s coming. “He saw more than he should have… part of the evidence I gathered for you.”
Cecily closes her eyes, and I tell her everything.
Every last detail.
I wake up a little dazed, my throat dry, the house completely hushed. Stretching, I head to the kitchen for a glass of water.
That’s when I see Ethan, hunched over the kitchen island, the glow of the screen casting a pale light across his face.
It takes me a moment to register what he’s holding, and another to grasp what it means.
I lunge forward and rip the tablet from his hands. Ethan doesn’t even try to stop me.
When I see what’s on the screen—screenshots oftheirtexts—I drag a hand over my face. It’s not the worst of it, but it’s still something I wish he hadn’t seen. “How did you unlock it?”
It takes him a while to answer. Then, in a flat voice, he says, “Face ID.”
I curse under my breath. When I’m home—or here—I disable the extra security layers for convenience. Of course it has to be Cecily’s son who outsmarts me. Goes straight to the cloud, digs around like he knows exactly where to look.
At least he didn’t inherit his father’s brain cells.
“What did you see, Ethan?” I ask, keeping my voice calm. “Don’t bother lying. I can check the activity history in under a minute.”
He steps away from the island and starts pacing.
“Pictures,” he says. “Him going in and out of a building after midnight. With a woman in an elevator. Arm in arm at a restaurant. Kissing her at what looked like JFK. A bunch of texts—him saying he’s on his way, her sending pictures. No faces. Just her. In lingerie.”
He stops, disgust etched across his face.
“That’s all you saw, Ethan?” I ask, glancing toward the garage door, making sure Cecily and Alicia aren’t back from ballet yet.
“Just that?” His eyes widen. “There’s more?”
I don’t answer.
“I’m not lying,” he says, his voice breaking. “I’m not a liar like him, Uncle Mark.”
The words fracture on the way out.
I step closer and rest a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey. I know,” my voice softens. “You’re already a million times the man he’ll ever be.”
