Before anyone could react, she slipped from Talia’s grasp and crawled across the marble floor toward him, grabbing the fabric of his pants and looking up with a sound that was almost a plea. Matthew knelt and lifted her again, his composure finally cracking as she settled against him without protest.
That was when Denise Fowler appeared. Her heels echoed against the floor as she approached, her posture rigid, her eyes calculating. She had been Matthew’s legal advisor for years, trusted, respected, and deeply accustomed to control.
“What is going on,” she asked sharply.
“Nothing,” Matthew replied, rising with Ava resting against his chest. “She was crying.”
Denise’s gaze flicked from the baby to Talia. “And why is an employee’s child in your arms.”
“She stopped crying when I held her,” Matthew said simply.
Denise stepped closer, studying the baby with open suspicion. “And this child belongs to.”
“She is mine,” Talia said softly.
Denise smiled, though the expression held no warmth. “How interesting.”
Matthew felt Ava clutch the medal again, the metal cool against his fingers, the memories relentless.
That night, alone in his office, Matthew pulled an old photo from his phone. Two young men stood laughing in the image, arms around each other outside a rundown diner. The same medal gleamed against the chest of the man beside him.
Aaron Blake. His best friend. His brother in every way that mattered. Aaron had died two years earlier in a crash on a rain soaked highway after calling Matthew for help. Matthew had survived. Aaron had not.
The weight of that truth pressed against his ribs.
Downstairs, Talia scrubbed floors with shaking hands while Ava played beside her, unaware of the storm surrounding her existence. She knew what Matthew had seen. She had known the moment his eyes fell on the medal.
Aaron had worn it always. He had traced the letters with his thumb when he spoke about the future, about having a child, about naming her Ava because it meant life. Denise confronted Talia the next morning, her questions sharp and unyielding, digging into the past, into Aaron, into the medal.
Later, Matthew called Talia into the dining room. “Tell me the truth,” he said quietly.
Talia told him everything. They sat in silence afterward, grief stretching between them like an open wound.
“She is his,” Matthew finally said.
“Yes,” Talia whispered.