The One He Never Held novel · Chapter 8 of 24

Chapter 8: What She Writes

Damian's POV

Lionel had breakfast at the same table at the University Club every Wednesday for thirty years.

I had eaten there with him since I was nineteen.

I sat down at seven sharp.

He had already ordered for me, soft eggs and wheat toast, the way he did when I was a boy.

"You look terrible," he said.

"I haven't slept."

"Neither have I." He buttered his toast with small even strokes.

"Hailey is home and safe. She's resting. The doctor says the baby is healthy."

"I want to see her."

"Of course. When she's stronger."

I put down my fork.

I had planned this speech in the shower.

All I had to do was say it, and my mouth still felt like it had at the dinner table.

"Lionel. Who is the father?"

"I don't know yet." He lifted his eyes, mild and blue. "But I'll find out, son. I always do."

"What happens when you do?"

"Then he'll be dealt with." He smiled. "A father's job."

Nothing in his face changed.

That was the part I kept going back to later.

He did not raise his voice or lower it.

He cut his toast into four neat triangles and ate one.

When I was fourteen, Lionel taught me to read a room by watching what the quietest man does with his hands.

His hands were completely still.

"Dealt with how?" I asked.

"Damian." He sighed, the way he sighed over bad quarterly numbers.

"You're being dramatic. Let me say something, and you'll listen, because I love you."

"Go ahead."

"Your father would have wanted this. The two families, one blood."

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