I clicked my pen, looked at my notes, then decided to ignore them entirely. Notes were for when you needed structure. This needed to feel human.
“So,” I said. “You fought to keep custody of your daughter. Against your late wife’s parents and a system that usually favors blood relatives. What made you keep fighting when most people would have walked away?”
Simon didn’t hesitate. “She’s my daughter. Biology doesn’t change that.”
“Even though?—”
“Even though.” His voice was firm. Final. “Suzy is my daughter. I raised her. I loved her before she was born and I loved her after I found out the truth. That didn’t change just because some DNA test said we weren’t related.”
I wrote that down. It was good. Honest.
“Hannah,” I shifted my attention. “You married Simon during the custody battle. Some people might say that was… strategic.”
Hannah’s eyebrows rose. “Some people would be partially right.”
I nodded, surprised by her direct honesty.
“We got married for Suzy,” Hannah continued, her voice matter-of-fact. “The court liked the idea of a stable two-parent household better than a single father. So we gave them what they wanted.”
“But it worked out,” Simon added, looking at his wife with an expression that made my chest ache. “Turns out marrying a stranger isn’t the worst idea.”
“Turns out,” Hannah agreed, smiling.
I found myself smiling too. There was something about them—the easy way they moved around each other, the shorthand in their conversation—that felt genuine. Not performed. Not curated for an interview. Just real.
“What do you want people to know about Suzy?” I asked.
Simon’s expression softened. “That she’s happy. That she’s loved. That she has a family who would do anything for her.”
“And that she’s off-limits for reporters and journalists,” Hannah added, but her tone was warm. Protective.
“Understood.”
We talked for another forty minutes. About the custody battle, about the ways the system failed families like theirs, about what it meant to choose love over biology. Simon was thoughtful. Hannah was sharp. Together they painted a picture of two people who’d built something real out of something that began as strategic.
When the hour was up, I closed my notebook feeling like I’d just witnessed something rare. Not a story. A truth.
“Thank you,” I said. “Really. This was?—”
“Important,” Hannah finished. “We know. That’s why we said yes.”
Simon stood, shook my hand again. “Jack said you were worth trusting. He was right.”
They walked me out. And that’s when I saw him.
Jack was leaning against the wall across from the conference room, looking at his phone, clearly waiting. When he saw me, his face did that thing—opened up, went warm—and then he was crossing the space between us and kissing me.
A kiss that said I missed you even though it’s only been an hour and I’m really glad you’re okay.
I kissed him back, my hands finding his chest, my brain momentarily forgetting that we were in a professional building and I’d just finished an important interview.
When we broke apart, I caught Simon and Hannah walking past. Simon’s hand was on Hannah’s back, guiding her toward the elevator, but he glanced back at Jack.
Something passed between them. A look. Brief but loaded with meaning.
My journalist instincts went on alert immediately.
“What was that?” I asked as soon as the elevator doors closed behind them.
