Chapter 1

My father was 63 and still driving overnight freight runs for other people. He hadn't been home in three months, all to save up enough for my IVF.

Then the fleet owner ran off with the payroll, owing him 80,000 dollars in wages.

He couldn't bring himself to pay for a cab, so he rode buses for six hours and climbed 17 flights of stairs to reach my husband's law firm.

"Edward, take a look at this for me. Can we still get the money back?" he asked.

Inside the office, Edward Bennett was helping the new intern pick out a birthday cake.

He was the city's top lawyer. His consultations ran 1,700 dollars an hour, and he'd won 330,000 dollars in damages for a girl from a poor rural town.

He heard my father out and gave a short laugh.

"Sir, you need an appointment to see me. There's a long line of people waiting, and being family doesn't mean you get to cut it," Edward said.

The intern chimed in softly, "That's right. Edward is meeting a client this afternoon on a 3.3-million-dollar case. He's not the kind of man people from the sticks get to see whenever they please."

My father froze. His cracked fingers loosened around the document folder, little by little.

"My mistake. I thought we were family and didn't need an appointment," he said awkwardly.

When he turned to leave, his oil-stained work jacket brushed the doorframe, and he hurried to wipe the spot with his sleeve.

I started toward Edward to demand an answer, but my father caught my arm.

"Emily, don't make things hard for him," Dad said. "I'll haul a few more loads when I get back, and then we can afford a lawyer."

But at the firm's entrance, he braced a hand against the wall and sank into a crouch, as if his legs had finally given out.

The tears came then, and I couldn't stop them.

I'm done with a husband who needs an appointment.

My father leaned on the wall, breathing slowly and hard.

"I'm fine. Old trouble. I'll be alright once I catch my breath," he said.

I'd heard that line my whole life.

When we were drowning in debt, he told me he was fine. When he worked himself ragged to put me through college, he was fine. Even when Edward's mother, Amanda Munson, sneered at how poor we were, he was still fine.

The glass door opened behind us.

Edward stepped out, suit crisp, his watch glinting cold under the lights. Chloe Ryan, the intern, followed at his side, still holding the cake catalog.

"Why are you still here?" Edward asked.

His eyes landed on my father, and his brow creased.

Not with worry. With distaste.

"Edward, my father has a fever," I said.

My throat was raw, but my voice came out steady.

Edward glanced at his phone. "There's a pharmacy downstairs. A clinic right next door."

Chloe tugged lightly at his sleeve. "Edward, the client's almost here. Don't get held up."

Her voice was quiet, but it carried to everyone in earshot.

My father struggled to his feet at once.

"I won't hold anyone up. I won't," he said.

He hugged the folder to his chest, smiling carefully. "Emily, let's go. We shouldn't be in the way here."

The words stung like needles, and my nose burned.

Three years ago, at our wedding, Edward had held my father's hand and promised that from then on, he'd treat him as his own father.

My father drank too much that night. He clapped Edward on the shoulder, eyes red.

"My girl's soft-hearted. Be patient with her," he said.

Edward answered him solemnly. "You have my word."

Now he stood three steps away and wouldn't even reach out a hand.

The elevator chimed open.

A group of well-dressed people stepped out, and the man in front called out with a smile, "Mr. Bennett, sorry to keep you waiting."

Edward's expression transformed. Warm, measured, polished.

He stepped aside to make way, his tone far softer than before. "Mr. Lewis, right this way."

As they passed us, Chris Lewis glanced down at my father. "And this is?"

Edward paused for half a second. "A relative. Here about some small matter."

A relative.

Not his father-in-law. Not family.

My father's back went rigid, and his grip on my wrist slackened all at once.

Chloe held out a disinfectant wipe, smiling. "Mr. Bennett's office was just cleaned, and you might have some oil on you, sir. Maybe wait outside for a bit."

She said it politely enough, but someone in the lobby ducked their head and laughed.

The color drained from my father's face, bit by bit.

He looked down at his jacket like a beggar who'd wandered into someone else's wedding.

"My fault. I wasn't careful," he mumbled.

He went to wipe the doorframe again. It was already polished to a shine.

Edward didn't stop her. With the client watching, he wouldn't risk his image, so he said flatly, "Emily, take him home first. Don't make a scene."

A scene.

So, even when my father was sick, owed his wages, and had traveled all this way to ask for help, to Edward, it was just making a scene.

I helped my father toward the exit. Wind rushed in through the revolving door, and the cold set off a fit of coughing.

My phone buzzed in my bag. A message from Edward.

[We'll talk about the IVF tonight. Don't bring your dad's problems home.]

Then another.

[My mom's coming over today. Watch your attitude around her.]

The screen was painfully bright. I deleted both messages and shoved the phone back in my bag.

A cab pulled up at the curb. My father saw it and moved to stop me. "Take the bus. Cabs cost too much."

I didn't listen to him.

As the door closed, I looked up at the floor-to-ceiling windows on the 17th floor, where Edward was bending down to light Chloe's candles.

The flame glowed against the glass, a warm little celebration meant for someone else's eyes.

My father sank into the back seat, his voice so low I could barely hear it.

"Emily, did I embarrass you today?" he asked.

I gripped his hand tightly.

The driver turned around. "Where to?"

My throat caught for a beat.

"City hospital ER," I said.