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"Tell me about them."

So I do. I tell him that Wells plays chess every morning on a magnetic board at the breakfast table and has been beating my father since he was six. I tell him Wells likes numbers because they behave, and that he hates loud surprises, crowded birthday parties, and anyone who talks to him as though he's younger than he is.

I tell him Miles plays soccer three afternoons a week, is building a robot he insists will eventually do his homework for him, and has never met a stranger he couldn't talk to within five minutes. I tell him Miles broke his wrist falling off a climbing frame when he was five and was more upset about missing two soccer games than about the cast.

Ross asks questions the entire time. He asks whether they're healthy, and I tell him they are. He asks what grade they're in, and I tell him they start second grade in the fall. He asks whether they sleep through the night, whether they fight with each other, whether they're good at school, and whether they're happy. Each question comes faster than the last, as though he's trying to fit seven years into a single cup of coffee.

Then he asks, "What did I miss?"

His voice changes when he says it. It drops lower, and it isn't quite steady.

I don't want to answer. I answer anyway, because I owe him that much. "Their first steps," I tell him. "Wells walked first. Miles was so angry about it that he started walking two days later out of spite. Their first words. Their first day of school. The time Wells beat kids three years older than him in a chess tournament and then threw up in the parking lot from nerves." I stop, because his jaw is clenched so tightly that I can see the muscle working. "Ross, I—"

"Don't," he says quietly. "Not yet. I'm not ready to hear you apologize."

I close my mouth and look down at the table.

When he speaks again, his voice is steadier. "I want to know them, Blaire. I don't mean a visit every few months or a card on their birthday. I want to be in their lives. I want to be their father."

I knew he would say it. I've known since the moment I saw his face on that lawn, and I spent the entire night preparing for it. Hearing it is different.

"Okay," I say.

He looks at me as though he expected more resistance.

"I'm not going to keep them from you anymore," I tell him. "But it has to happen carefully. They're seven. Their whole world is our house, their school, their friends, and me. I can't let that be turned upside down overnight."

"I'm not trying to turn anything upside down," he says.

"I know you're not. But you don't know what happens when your world touches something." I take a breath, because this is the part I've been dreading. "I need you to promise me something. I need you not to tell your mother or Sebastian yet. Not your family office, not your attorneys, not anyone."

His expression hardens instantly. "You're asking me to lie to my family."

"I'm asking you for time," I say. "The moment the Kensington machinery knows about them, there'll be lawyers. Trusts. Security. Someone will start talking about succession before anyone thinks to ask what they like for breakfast. I watched it happen to you, Ross. I watched it take over your life in a matter of days. I won't let it happen to them before they even know who you are."

"She's their grandmother," he says, and his voice rises for the first time since he sat down. "Sebastian is their uncle. They have a family, Blaire, a whole family that doesn't even know they exist, and you want me to—"

He stops, and I watch it happen. He looks at me, then toward the window, and I can see him hear his own words. He's about to decide for both of us again, to overrule me because he's certain he knows what's best, and he recognizes it in the same moment I do.

He's quiet for a while. When he looks back at me, some of the fight has gone out of his shoulders.

"How long?" he asks.

"I don't know yet," I admit. "Long enough for them to know you before they have to know what you are to them."

His eyes narrow. "You don't want to tell the boys either."

"Not yet," I say.

I can see how much he hates it. His hand flattens against the table, and he takes a slow breath before he answers. "They should know who their father is."

"They will," I tell him. "But right now, you're a stranger who looked at their mother like she'd done something terrible. If you walk into their lives as their father before they've even had dinner with you, they won't know what to do with that. Let them meet you first. Let them like you."

He's silent long enough that I wonder whether he'll refuse. Then he nods once.

"Fine," he says. "But I want you to hear this clearly, Blaire. I'll give you time, and I'll do it your way, but it can't be indefinite. I'm not waiting another seven years."

"It won't be," I tell him.