He grumbles but joins me at my side.
I stop next to a framed movie poster of one of Dario’s earlier films and point out a tall blonde in a slinky red dress. “Look, it’s your mother inThe Tribute.”
He gazes at the photo with a frown.
I turn back to the poster. “I’ve never seen this movie. I feel like I need to. She was stunning,” I say.
He looks away.
I move on, admiring an adorable picture of Sebastian that looks like it was taken early on the set ofThe Family, when I hear his sucked-in breath.
I turn to see that he’s frozen in front of a picture of a smiling man and a young boy. Judging by the clothes, it looks like it was taken in the fifties, perhaps.
I look closer, trying to see what has him so transfixed, and gasp. “Holy shit. Did you time travel? This man looks exactly like you.” I marvel. He’s a replica of Sebastian. He has the same dark hair, aquiline bone structure, the same perfect nose and strong jaw, and the same careless smile. He’s magnetically handsome, just like the star beside me.
Sebastian has always been just as gorgeous as the famous Blake side of his family, but they all had fair, more traditional good looks. Sebastian’s features are sharper, with stronger lines and deeper contours. Exactly like the man in the photograph.
“That’s my father in the photo,” a raspy voice says behind us.
I turn to find Mancini. He’s watching Sebastian with an intense gaze. “Our family genes are strong. Most of the Mancini men inherit those features. Though that particular gift skipped me.” He pauses. “I’ve wanted to show you this picture, my boy.”
Sebastian’s expression is guarded, grim, but his icy eyes shoot back fire. “So I guess that answers that question,” Sebastian says. “Dad.”
CHAPTER 39
Sebastian
Emma makes a strangled sound.I turn to make sure she’s okay. Though shock is evident in her eyes, she says nothing.
She rests a steadying hand on my arm.
That hand grounds me. Reminds me to breathe. Reminds me of the man I want to be, not the boy I was at eighteen when my mom, on a rare visit, showed up at my penthouse in New York and drunkenly revealed that my asshole father might not actually be my father. Or at least she suspected he wasn’t. Because timing. And cheating. And all sorts of other bullshit.
“It’s just as likely to be Dario Mancini. But don’t worry. You have amazing genes either way. Famous actor, famous director, what does it matter? Your father always suspected, but he doesn’t know for sure. Because, really, there’s nothingtoknow. Peter Blake was my husband, and no matter what, he’ll always be the one on your birth certificate. That’s what is important.”
Even though she laughed off her drunken revelations the next day, the poison had already been administered. I couldn’trid the insidious toxin from my system. It seeped into everything. My memories. My view of the world.
My heart.
If what my mom had said was true, it meant I had no claim to the Blake family legacy. Or to my grandparents, whom I adored.
What was the truth, and what was a lie? It probably would have been better if I’d known for sure back then.
But I hadn’t. And if my mother was telling the truth, she didn’t really know either.
There was just enough ambiguity to make me try to bury the possibility as far as it could go. Back then, it was easier to swallow that poison, stuffing it down with drugs and alcohol and partying until I could barely remember my first name, let alone any angst about the truth of my last.
That was the year of unraveling. It ended in my car accident. And then rehab.
And through it all, I couldn’t stop wondering about Mancini, the one man I’d revered for years and always thought of as the father I wished I’d had. Was he just another asshole who cheated on his wife with his leading lady and either knowingly or unknowingly abandoned his kid?
No answer ever came. It was easier to pretend.
Eventually, I got my act together and doubled down on being the perfect Blake. If I could get an Oscar like my dad and grandparents, that would mean something. That would show that I was part of their family. That I had their talent. I deserved that legacy.
Except… now, with one photo, everything I tried to forget is in black and white.
And as I see the quiet concern in the director’s eyes, I suddenly know. I know it’s all true.
