“Stop,” Sienna interrupts firmly. “Parker, I’ve watched those three men with your boys. I’ve seen Jace teaching them to throw a football. I’ve seen Cal helping them with their math homework even though they’re five and don’t actually have homework. I’ve seen Silas let them climb all over him like a jungle gym while he pretends to be annoyed.”
“I know, but?—”
“They love those boys,” Sienna continues. “Both of them. Equally. And finding out biological paternity isn’t going to change that. If anything, it’ll just give them clarity. Let them stop wondering and start just... being.”
“And if they can’t forgive me for not trusting them enough to tell them sooner?”
“Then they’re idiots.” Sienna’s voice is matter-of-fact. “But they’re your idiots. They’re men who fucked up by not trusting you, who are going to have to watch you walk into that gala on another man’s arm as a direct consequence of their own doubt. They’ll forgive you. The question is whether you can forgive them.”
I think about that. About Cal’s distant expression over the past two days. About Jace’s careful formality. About Silas’s visible frustration with both of them.
About the way they all opened their mouths without question when I demanded their DNA.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I want to. But what if the next time things get complicated, they do the same thing? What if doubt becomes the pattern?”
“Then you leave.” Sienna says it simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You take your boys and you build the life you want, with or without them. But Parker—” She waits until I meet her eyes. “I don’t think it will come to that. I think they’re terrified of losing you. I think they just got a very painful lesson in what happens when they let someone else’s words override their own knowledge of who you are. And I think they’re going to spend a very long time proving they’ve learned from it.”
“You have a lot of faith in them.”
“I have faith in you,” Sienna corrects. “I have faith that you wouldn’t have chosen them if they weren’t worth it. I have faith that you wouldn’t be sitting here in a dress that’s literally designed to claim them publicly if you’d already given up.”
She’s right. The dress, the colors, the deliberate choice to wear storm-grey and steel-blue and amber—it’s all a message. A claim. A reminder.
I’m yours. Even when I’m angry. Even when you’ve fucked up. Even when I’m on another man’s arm.
“There’s my fierce sister,” Sienna says, watching my expression shift. “There’s the woman who’s about to walk into that gala and remind everyone exactly who she is.”
A knock at the door interrupts us.
“Ms. Parker?” Marcus’s voice, muffled through the wood. “Mr. Matthews has arrived.”
My stomach drops.
Sienna stands, moving to her closet. “I have an idea. Trust me?”
“Always.”
She pulls out a long coat—black cashmere, elegant and expensive, the kind of thing that screams wealth without being ostentatious. It’s long enough to cover the dress completely, hiding everything from neckline to hem.
“You’re going to keep this on until you get inside the museum,” Sienna says, helping me into it. “Let everyone see you arrive with Ryan looking... polite. Professional. Then at the top of the grand staircase, when you’re about to descend to the main floor, you take it off.”
I understand immediately. “You want me to save the reveal.”
“I want you to control the reveal,” Sienna corrects. “Jace, Cal, and Silas will be there—they’re in the first car of the caravan. They’ll be watching. And when you take off that coat and they see what you’re wearing...” She smiles. “Well. Let’s just say Ryan Matthews won’t stand a chance.”
“You’re devious.”
“I’m strategic.” She buttons the coat, concealing the storm and steel and amber beneath black cashmere. “Now go show them who you belong to.”
The car smells like expensive cologne and leather—Ryan’s cologne, specifically, something woody and masculine that probably costs more per ounce than my monthly grocery budget used to.
He’s in a classic black tux, perfectly tailored, his dark hair styled with just enough product to look effortless. He looks good. Objectively, undeniably good.
And I feel absolutely nothing.
“You look beautiful,” he says as Marcus pulls away from the main house, falling into line behind the other cars in the caravan. “That coat is stunning.”
“Thank you.” I keep my voice polite, professional. “You look very nice as well.”
