My ex-husband is my newest VIP buyer.
He thinks I left him for the money.
I never corrected him.
Letting Sebastian Fairchild hate me has always been safer than letting him know the truth.
He wants a forty-two-million-dollar penthouse on the Hudson. He asked for me, by name, to walk him through it.
In the elevator, before we sign, he says it low, almost casual: Show me the primary suite.
I push the doors open and a small body comes flying out before I can step inside, an art portfolio clutched against his chest.
"Mommy! Look — I drew Daddy!"
The man on the page is wearing a black suit. Sharp brows. Hudson-grey eyes. He is, line for line, the man standing behind me.
Nobody breathes.
Sebastian looks at the drawing. Then at the boy's face. Then at me.
"Olivia."
His voice has gone cold in a way that scares me.
"Whose child is this."
I haven't opened my mouth before Noah tilts his face up and tells him, in the matter-of-fact voice three-and-a-half-year-olds use:
"Mommy said my daddy died a long time ago."
Four years after the divorce, my ex-husband becomes the most expensive client on my desk.
When Diane drops the buyer's folder in front of me, her grin almost wraps around to her ears.
"Olivia. The commission on this one feeds you for three years. He asked for you by name."
I look at the buyer's name. My fingers stop moving for two full seconds.
Sebastian Fairchild.
Three words that used to be on my marriage certificate.
Three words that ended up on my separation agreement.
The bullpen circles in to bait me.
"Fairchild Holdings, Olivia. The CEO. Hot. Loaded. Single."
"You close him? Forget the commission. You'll never have to sell another listing in your life."
I close the folder. My voice is level.
"I sell apartments. Not myself."
The words land just as the showroom doors open.
A row of black suits funnels a man in. Charcoal overcoat, the cut Italian, the shoulders Manhattan. He looks like he just walked out of weather that hasn't reached the rest of us yet.
Four years and he's heavier somehow. Stiller.
When his eyes land on me, there is no surprise. No greeting.
Only an appraisal.
Diane lights up and rushes him.
"Mr. Fairchild, welcome. Olivia is our top associate broker — "
Sebastian looks at me.
"I know."
Two words. Diane's smile widens.
I hear what's underneath.
He knows.
Four years ago I walked out of his life for a cashier's check, and I nailed gold-digger into my own forehead with my own hands.
He steps closer. His eyes drop to my lapel.
"Olivia Marlowe."
He reads it slowly.
"You went back to Marlowe?"
Diane's smile freezes.
I smile.
"Mr. Fairchild, are you here for a viewing or for a background check?"
The room goes still.
Sebastian looks at me for two seconds. The corner of his mouth lifts a fraction.
"A viewing."
He hands me a card. Centurion. Black. Heavier than it should be.
"If the place works, I'll wire today."
Diane's eyes go wide.
I take the card. My fingers don't touch his.
But Sebastian says, low —
"You're certainly careful about contact now."
I look up.
His eyes have nothing in them.
"Back when you were taking my money, you weren't this careful."
The line drops into the room. Diane pretends not to hear it. The bullpen is suddenly a wall of perked ears.
I don't defend myself.
Four years ago I took fifteen million dollars from the Fairchild estate.
The evidence is airtight.
The release-of-claims agreement was drafted by Cravath. I signed every page myself.
The separation paperwork I handed Sebastian myself, in his grandmother's library.
He came straight from the hospital that day. The collar of his shirt still smelled faintly of surgical adhesive.
I sat on the long sofa in Vivienne Fairchild's library and said:
"Sebastian. I'm not doing this anymore."
He asked:
"What do you want."
I said:
"Money."
He stared at me. His eyes went red around the edges in a way I'd never seen before.
In the end he laughed — one short, ugly laugh — and threw the fountain pen across the rug at my feet.
"Olivia. You disgust me."
I didn't cry.
Because crying would have given it away.
The elevator climbs. Sebastian stands beside me. Theo and Diane stand behind us.
I press 36.
Forty-two million. Four bedrooms. Floor-through. Hudson views.
Sebastian says:
"I heard you got remarried."
I watch the floor numbers.
"I don't think a buyer's file should include my personal life."
He makes a small sound, almost a laugh.
"So it's true."
I don't answer.
He says:
"Is he good to you?"
The question doesn't sound like a barb. It sounds, weirdly, calm.
I say:
"Very."
The doors open at thirty-six.
I step out first. Pull the keys. Open the unit.
"Mr. Fairchild, this is the best layout on the top tier. South-and-north exposures, primary great room facing the river. Built for long-term residence."
Sebastian doesn't look at the great room.
He looks at me.
"Where do you live?"
Diane gives a polite, embarrassed cough.
I keep my smile in place.
"Mr. Fairchild, if this isn't the right unit, I can show you others."
He walks farther in.
"It's the right unit."
I exhale.
A second later he stops at the floor-to-ceiling windows. His back is to me when he says it.
"I'm buying it for a wedding."
My fingers tighten on the keys.
Diane jumps in.
"Mr. Fairchild — congratulations are in order, then."
Sebastian turns. His eyes pin me.
"They are."
He says:
"You'll know the bride."
I assume he means whatever heiress the Fairchilds have been parading at him for four years.
Then I hear heels in the foyer.
A woman in a cream Chanel suit walks in, smiling like sunlight.
"Bash. Tell me I'm not late."
I know her.
Sloane Pemberton.
Sebastian's childhood friend. The summer-house girl. The dynasty's preferred daughter-in-law from the day they were both eleven.
She sees me. The smile catches for half a second, then resets.
"Olivia. It's been ages."
Diane looks at her, looks at me. The gossip is almost falling out of her face.
I nod.
"Ms. Pemberton."
Sloane laces her arm through Sebastian's.
"This unit is gorgeous. Where's the primary suite? I want to see where the bed goes."
Sebastian doesn't pull his arm away.
He looks at me.
"Lead."
I turn for the primary suite.
Every step lands on an old bruise.
Sloane's voice drifts up behind me, low and gentle.
"Olivia. Don't take it personally. Bash is sentimental, that's all. He just wanted you to handle it. He's not trying to humiliate you."
I stop.
I turn around.
"Ms. Pemberton, I think you're overestimating my feelings. Buyers pay. I show. That's the job."
Her smile thins.
But Sebastian, suddenly:
"Are you that hard up for money?"
I say:
"Nobody minds a bigger commission."
His eyes go cold.
"So whoever pays the most gets you."
I put my hand on the suite's doorknob.
"Mr. Fairchild. If you came here to insult me, there are better venues. The building has cameras."
Sloane gives his arm a soft tug.
"Bash. Leave it. She has it hard enough."
She has it hard enough — that one cuts cleaner than any insult.
I push the suite doors open.
I don't even get the listing pitch out before a small body comes barreling out of the room and plows straight into my legs.
"Mommy!"
The blood drops out of me in one slide.
Noah looks up. He has his art portfolio crushed against his chest.
He's three and a half. His eyes are Sebastian's eyes — clean, dark, a little glacial when he's still, melting when he's not.
He thrusts the page up at me.
"Look what I drew!"
The paper shows a man standing in front of a building. Black suit. Sharp jaw. Block letters in crayon underneath, crooked, pressed deep.
MY DADDY.
Sebastian's gaze settles on the drawing.
The room loses every sound it had.
My first instinct is to push the drawing down.
I'm too late.
Sebastian walks toward us. The steps are very slow.
He goes down on his heels in front of Noah, eye level. He looks at the boy's face.
Noah isn't shy of strangers. He just doesn't like them close. He inches half a step behind my leg.
Sebastian's hand stops in mid-air.
Sloane's face changes color.
She looks at Noah. Then at me.
"Olivia. Is this — your son? With your husband?"
Diane sucks in a breath.
I lift Noah onto my hip.
"I apologize, Mr. Fairchild. We're going to wrap up here. A colleague will continue the showing."
Sebastian steps into my path.
"How old."
I say:
"None of your concern."
"How old."
His voice has compressed into something I've never heard from him.
Noah hooks his arms around my neck and whispers, "Mommy. Is he being mean to you?"
Something shifts in Sebastian's eyes.
I pat Noah's back.
"No, sweetheart."
Sloane suddenly laughs.
"Bash, you're frightening the child. Olivia left you four years ago. The boy can't possibly be yours."
Soft voice. Helpful tone. The knife slid in for him, not for me.
Sebastian looks at me.
"Answer me."
I keep my voice flat.
"Three and a half."
His pupils contract.
Divorced four years. A son three and a half years old.
The arithmetic clicks into place with a sound like a deadbolt.
The smile on Sloane's face won't hold.
"That isn't possible," she says. "Olivia left so cleanly. If she'd been carrying a child, why wouldn't she have told you?"
Sebastian doesn't even register her.
He's looking at Noah's drawing.
"Who taught you to draw him?"
Noah presses his lips together.
"I drew him myself."
"Have you seen him before?"
"Yeah."
My stomach hits the floor.
Sebastian lifts his eyes.
"Where."
Noah flips the portfolio open to the front pocket.
Inside, behind the plastic sleeve, is a photograph I have hidden between the pages of an old hardback for four years.
In it I'm in a white shift dress. Sebastian is in a black suit. We are standing on the steps of the Manhattan Marriage Bureau on Worth Street. He is looking down at me, and his eyes have nothing in them but me.
Noah says, very seriously:
"Mommy said he died."
Sebastian rises. The cold coming off him is the kind that scares people who work in glass towers for a living.
Diane is past trying to talk.
Sloane covers her mouth.
"Olivia. How could you tell a child something like that."
I don't look at her.
I speak only to Sebastian.
"He's small. I gave him a quick answer."
Sebastian laughs. One note.
"A quick answer."
He takes one step closer.
"You told my son his father is dead."
Noah goes very still.
He looks at Sebastian. Then at me.
"Mommy. Why did he say I'm his son?"
I tighten my arms around him.
"Noah, sweetheart, go find Aunt Erin for me."
"No."
He doesn't let go.
Sebastian's eyes drop to Noah's small fists in my collar. His voice softens.
"Is your name Noah?"
Noah doesn't answer.
He's stubborn with strangers.
Sloane chimes in, quickly.
"Bash. Don't jump. He just looks like you. Resemblance isn't — "
Sebastian tilts his head at her.
"Do you think he looks like me?"
Sloane's voice catches.
Sebastian turns back to me.
"Paternity test."
I say:
"Out of the question."
"Olivia. You don't have standing to refuse."
"I'm his mother."
"I'm his father."
Five words. They land flat between us, and Noah, who hasn't understood any of this, suddenly does.
He reaches out and touches the button on Sebastian's overcoat.
"Are you really my daddy?"
Something in Sebastian's face goes soft, just for that second.
I move Noah out of reach immediately.
"Mr. Fairchild. Don't touch him."
His hand freezes.
The tension stretches another notch.
That's when a man's voice comes from the doorway.
"Liv. What's Noah doing in here?"
Lucian Cole walks in. Black scrubs under a wool coat. A spill-proof toddler cup in one hand.
He's my husband on paper.
He's also the man who has helped me hold the Fairchilds off the trail for four years.
Sebastian sees him. The cold goes another ten degrees deeper.
Lucian crosses to me, lifts Noah easily into his arm, voice perfectly normal.
"Apologies, Mr. Fairchild. He got loose. Won't happen again."
Sebastian is staring at the way Lucian is holding him.
"You're her husband."
Lucian smiles.
"Legally."