The Ashford jet brought them back to the city before dawn. By the time they arrived at the estate, Ethan expected to see his father at work or away on one of his trips. Instead, he was there, waiting. Alone with no house staff.
That in itself was unusual. In addition, his father rarely called family meetings.
He summoned them into the study, closing the heavy doors behind them. Then, without pleasantries, he handed Ethan a single sheet of paper. Ethan glanced at it, brow furrowing at the meaningless columns of numbers and letters, until his father's voice cut through.
"I am a grandfather to a three month old boy," he said.
The words didn't land immediately. A hundred scenarios rushed through Ethan's head..an affair? A hidden child from his father's past? But then his father's eyes locked onto his, holding them in a way that stripped away every other possibility.
It was like a slow fall into ice water.
Exactly one year earlier. The night with Clara. Reckless. Impulsive.
His mother's gaze shifted toward him. Ethan's throat tightened, his knees unsteady enough that his father reached out, steadying him by the shoulder.
Questions rushed through his mind. How did his father find out? Where was Clara? Where was their baby?
His father answered before Ethan could speak. "I sent away the housekeeper and the maids, but they will be here by afternoon. Before then, I want you," he said, looking at his wife, "to go and pick up the boy. Bring him here. We will have to pretend that he is our son."
Ethan stared. "Why pretend? He already has a mother. Clara is his mother."