"Mommy."
The three-year-old girl staggered across the room—half asleep. She had gotten out of bed early, a routine she cultivated, and yet on all those mornings she would not find her mom. She's gone to work, darling, Harvey would try to convince his daughter. This morning, when he heard her downstairs, he went to do the usual.
"Ivy! Sweetie, where are you?" he called to her. He made quick work of the stairs down and turned into the living room—only for his eyes to betray him. Just at the kitchen, he could see his baby girl cuddling in her mother's arms and saying a dozen words at the same time.
"Vivian!" His eyes widened as he approached them.
"Good morning, baby." Vivian rose and kissed him briefly. She had to—because Ivy pulled down hard on her night robe. She turned, picked her up, and carried her to the kitchen. Harvey followed behind, confused.
"Mommy, can I come to work with you today?" Ivy asked when Vivian placed her down on the counter. She poured her a glass of warm milk. The little girl squealed and giggled happily.
Vivian leaned in to kiss her forehead. "Sure, you can come with me."
"What?" Harvey stepped between them. "Is something wrong, Vivian?"
Vivian frowned then and walked out.
"Stay here," Harvey told Ivy, who smiled with milk-stained lips.
"Hey," Harvey chased after Vivian and caught her at the stairs.
"I don't know, Harvey. Is it wrong to finally spend time with my family?"
"No, that's not it." Harvey pulled her close. "But we both know how important work is to you and…" His voice trailed off when he saw the look on her face. He was confused, yet he wouldn't argue. His daughter was reeling in the joy of seeing Santa, and he wouldn't break that.
"I'm sorry, you're right. You can spend time with your family." Vivian hugged him when he said that.
"I'm going to make us breakfast." Us. Breakfast. Time. Family. Harvey thought—those were words she never spoke and would turn any conversation into a fight if she was challenged with them. Yet, as she walked to the kitchen singing happily, he couldn't help but suspect something was wrong. But then he stopped himself.
"Relax, Harvey." He forced a smile, like though it would cause him to believe. She did miss her family, he nodded to himself. When was the last time he even touched her?
"Baby," he called to her, and she stopped. Then he crossed the room to her and peeled her off the floor.
"What are you doing?" she laughed as he carried her upstairs. They both landed onto the soft mattress, and he slipped her robe off.
He sealed her lips with a kiss while she tried to talk, and instead of words, she only moaned when his fingers disappeared between her private parts. They kissed briefly before the telephone interrupted. Its loud ring pierced the room. She got up, robe still open, and answered the call. Harvey turned on his back, disappointed. It always happened every morning—only this morning, she replaced the receiver after saying "Okay," and straddled him. She threw her robe off.
"Don't think you can get off that easily." She smiled and pulled him up toward her face.
"Who's getting off?" he slid his pants off and lowered her down. She gasped at the penetration. She started to move slowly, up and down—a rhythm—then faster and rougher, and as the room filled with the sounds of intimacy, neither of them wondered at anything but the act of love.
***
An hour later, Vivian was at Moretti Homes. Mother and daughter were the attention of the moment. Ivy tugged at her hand as they walked and kept speaking, occasionally smiling to her admirers. Ivy was a beauty, just three, with eyes like jades. Her hair was blonde like Harvey's, and her skin was a fine mix of both her parents—it was smooth to the eye and soft to the touch. She had learned how to speak earlier than most kids did, and her voice carried the charm of a singer. Ballet—that was her one dream, and she kept trying to twirl in her mother's hold.
"Mommy," she tugged at her dress.
"Yes, darling," Vivian held her away from the elevator doors as they closed before them.
"Is Uncle Vincent here?" she asked.
"No, baby, he has a lot to do, and he won't be coming."
"How about Uncle Michael?"
The name shook her for a moment. She felt her heart race as though she had just been asked for the truth.
"He promised he'd take me to the concert playing this Christmas," Ivy went on saying, not aware her mother was having a mild panic attack.
"Baby," Vivian knelt down and tugged at the girl's hands.
"Promise you won't talk about Uncle Michael when we go back home. I'll get you lots of ice cream."
"Really?" Ivy smiled brightly.
"Yes, baby, lots—you can have any flavor you want." And like the child she was, innocent of lies and deceit, she nodded to that promise. But what could a three-year-old know of a promise?
The doors chimed when they opened—a metallic sound—and Ivy repeated it, "Chime!!!" She giggled, then when her eyes met with Michael, she dashed to him and jumped into his arms.
"There's my favorite ballerina." Michael kissed her fluffy cheek. "You bring anything for me today?" He raised a brow.
"Yes, but that's if you like sandwiches." She smiled.
"I love those. Did you make them?"
"My mom did—but I helped with the knife." She laughed. Michael placed her down, laughing at her sense of humor.
"Mommy, can I go see the aquarium?" Ivy pleaded with Vivian when she joined them. She nodded. "But don't touch anything," Vivian said.
When she ran off down the halls, Michael pulled Vivian into his office and shut the doors behind him. The glass wall turned to privacy, and he pulled her onto the desk—his arms everywhere: her breastplate, her ass, her waist. He kissed her. She stopped him.
"Michael, not now, my daughter is here." She pulled back.
"And you never stopped me when your husband was in the other room. We did it, and you even moaned."
"Michael, stop," she raised her voice a little, for a sickening feeling she felt—the eyes of Harvey watching her.
"What? Is something wrong?" he asked. Was he seriously asking that?
"We don't need to continue doing this anymore." She walked to the door, but he yanked her back.
"Did Harvey find out?"
"What? No!" she said.
"Then we have no problem." He pulled her back into the chair.
"Michael, stop," she whispered under his kiss. He didn't. Instead, he slipped a finger under her skirt, and when he brought it out, he showed it to her. "Your mouth says one thing, your body says the opposite."
This was the reason their affair kept going. He knew her needs and how to stir them. He knew where to touch and how hard—she loved it. He was a disease she couldn't cure.
"Please stop," she whispered, trying to resist. But when he placed her hand under his pant to feel his erection, reason was lost to lust. She let him slide off her undies and have his way with her. It was quick—intense and wild, like she loved it.
"I went to see the DA, Vivian," he said when they were done. "I'm not taking the fall for Vincent—besides, he can handle himself."
Vivian settled in the chair opposite him, her mind racing at the kind of discussion they were having and what they just did. It was one sin after another.
"Michael, we don't have to go down this road," she said, her voice shaking.
"What other road is there? The one where the DA tells the whole world about us? He threatened my family, Vivian—I can't do that to my kids."
When he mentioned kids, her eyes peeled off to hers, and guilt squeezed her heart. That was when a knock sounded on the door.
"Come," Michael said. It opened a crack, and his secretary peeped in.
"I have a message for Vivian Holman." She walked in carrying an envelope. "It's from the DA's office."
The room crept with cold and fear. Vivian collected the file and ripped it open, ignoring the large writing on it: You might want to see this one alone.
In the envelope was the birth certificate of Ivy, and beside it, a DNA test. She squeezed the papers and caught the table for support.
"Leave us," Michael said, and the secretary disappeared. He came around to Vivian.
"Are you okay? What has he got on you?" He reached for the papers, but she shoved his hand away.
"I didn't ask for any of this." Her eyes teared up, and her breath shuddered.
"What is it, Vivian?"
"He can't destroy my life for a stupid mistake."
"He's not going to—if we give him what he wants."
"You have to, Vivian, or we'll watch everything we've built go to ruin."
"I can't."
The door opened then.
"Mommy!" Ivy ran in. Vivian wiped her tears off and forced a smile.
"What is it, baby?"
"Uncle Vincent is downstairs." She jumped while saying that. The news of his unexpected visit caught the two of them off guard. And as the weight of their sins bore down, they could only question the future.