Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
There was no relation whatsoever.
Meaning . . .
Chloe wasn’t his stepsister.
They weren’t related at all. Not by marriage. Not in any way.
The revelation was too good to be true, though. He needed more than one source to confirm, before he ran with it. Otherwise he’d open up himself and Chloe to another disappointment. One that might very well kill them this time around.
Hands shaking, he called his mother, barely able to speak when she answered. “Rosie? Mom.” Until she made a sound at his use of the word “mom,” until that very moment, the implication of this news where his mother was concerned didn’t occur to him. Now, the shock jolted him almost violently in his seat, his head shaking no of its own volition. She’d known. She’d held the key to his prison cell this entire time and hadn’t offered it to him. “Rosie.”
“Yes, Sig?” Silence passed. “Is something the matter?”
“He’s not my father,” Sig managed, lips parched. “Harvey. He’s not my dad. Is that the truth? Yes or no?”
He held his breath.
“Sig, I . . .” Something toppled over in the background. “Why would you a-ask—”
Anger and something else—betrayal, possibly, yes—locked around his windpipe, causing the breath he’d been holding to burst out of him. “Don’t lie to me, please. Give me a straight answer, just this once. This . . . God, if this is true, if Harvey isn’t my father, not knowing the truth could have kept me from her. I could have left her for no reason, don’t you see that?”
Her confusion was palpable even through the phone. “Who, Sig? Who are you talking about?”
“Chloe.” Sure, he’d never told his mother about Chloe. He’d locked the magic of her up tight, refusing to share until he knew for sure they were forever. But wanting to know the truth about his parentage should have been enough. No, it was enough. “Who is my father, Rosie? I want the truth now. Now, okay? No more games.”
Several moments swam past, each of them a blur. “Bobby Prince.” Her exhale spoke of relief tinged with a telling dose of shame. “The man I was seeing before Harvey swooped back in . . . I— Oh my God. I’m very sorry, Sig. I should have told you. Old habits die hard and I was brought up to keep secrets, avoid anything that could poison the family name. And there was . . . more. There’s more.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “I just wanted to prove we didn’t need any of them. We didn’t.”
Sig struggled to locate his compassion—and miraculously, he did, though it was buried deep beneath a wealth of anger and relief and urgency. Maybe because his mother’s quest to make it alone reminded him of Chloe’s journey. Or maybe staying mad wasn’t possible when life had just become worth living again.
He and Chloe could be together. There wasn’t anything stopping them.
Nothing but this flight to Los Angeles. Signing with another team.
He gulped in a shuddering breath, filling his lungs completely for the first time in a full minute. Maybe days. “Thank you for finally telling me the truth, Rosie. But right now, I have somewhere to be. I’ll call you another time.” He swallowed hard. “And I’ll tell you about her.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” she said in a weepy voice.
Sig hung up and stood on shaky legs, lurching forward to catch himself on the partition in front of him, the relief so wild and potent, it was hitting him in startling waves, knocking the air out of him over and over and over again. “Stop.” He raised his thousand-pound arm, waving at the young woman who was in the process of closing the airplane door. “Stop, I’m getting off. I have to go. Now.”
“I . . . what?” she sputtered. “Is something wrong?”
No. Something was finally right.
Christ. Chloe’s performance was tonight and he wasn’t there. But he’d get there. He’d fucking be there, like she’d asked. And afterward, he’d hold her and inform her he’d never let her go. Not ever. The misery and madness were over.
It seemed to take a million years for the steps to be lowered once again, but as soon as they touched the tarmac, Sig raced to the bottom and sprinted for the charter office, phone in one hand, bag in the other. He didn’t bother calling an Uber, wasn’t even sure he could manage to think critically enough for that, because the joy was an explosion inside of him, sending his muscles into bouts of weakness, followed by bursts of strength. And he couldn’t think, he just ran, throwing himself into the back of a waiting cab once he exited the building.
“Symphony Hall, please,” he said raggedly.
Satisfied that the driver was picking up on the urgency in his tone, based on the way the man hit the gas, Sig looked down at his phone once again and dialed, not even bothering to catch his breath.