“Mr. Fontaine,” Gregory said with a mixture of emotion and relief. “I’m Greg and this is my wife, Jocelyn. We’re Sarah’s parents.”
“Adoptive parents,” Jocelyn added nervously.
“You’re her parents,” I corrected gently. “That will never change.”
“Of course.” Gregory offered with a grateful smile, his voice hoarse. “We just wanted to thank you for everything you did to find our daughter and bring her home. I never…” He swallowed hard. “If I’d known there was even the slightest chance she was alive, I never would have?—”
“You couldn’t have known,” I assured him. “It’s how they wanted it.”
He nodded before pulling Jocelyn and Sarah close against him.
“You gave us the greatest gift,” he whispered.
“Twice,” Jocelyn added.
I nodded, stealing a glance around the hospital room.
At Ariana sitting beside me.
At Sarah smiling through her tears.
At the two people who raised my daughter as if she were their own.
And for the first time in years, a strange feeling of peace overcame me.
For so long, I’d been content to live my solitary existence.
Thought it was what I deserved for failing my mother and brother all those years ago.
But sitting here, surrounded by the people I loved most in the world, I finally understood something.
Every terrible choice, every mistake, every loss had led me here.
To Sarah.
To Ariana.
To this moment.
I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.
Chapter Forty
Ariana
I adjusted the diamond bracelet on my wrist as I scanned the hundreds upon hundreds of people in the refurbished warehouse that had been transformed into tonight’s gallery space.
Exposed brick walls stretched toward high ceilings crisscrossed with steel beams and industrial piping, all softened by strands of warm Edison lights suspended overhead.
Massive paintings and sculptures filled the open space, their bold colors standing out against the neutral tones in the architecture. The faint scent of champagne, oil paint, and polished wood lingered in the air while a DJ spun beats in the background, the music creating a fun, celebratory atmosphere.
A year ago, an event like this would have made my skin crawl.
Back then, charity functions were prisons disguised as philanthropy. Rooms full of wealthy strangers and fake smiles where I stood beside Victor like a decoration instead of a person.
Every laugh carefully measured.
Every movement practiced.
