I softened my voice, not for him but for myself. “Did my father die knowing he was right?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you?”
“No,” Adrian said quickly. Too quickly, perhaps. “No, Elena. I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t.”
I wanted to believe him. That was the painful part. Some old reflex in my heart still reached for the man who had once held my hand in hospital waiting rooms and whispered that we could survive anything.
But survival required honesty, and honesty had never been his strongest form of love.
“Why is there a file labeled DL?” I asked.
His answer came slowly.
“Because after your father died, Victor brought me documents. He said Daniel had been confused. He said your father had been asking questions that could hurt the company if they became rumors.”
“So you buried it.”
“I was trying to keep the company alive.”
“My father was dead.”
The words were not loud, but they ended whatever defense he had been building.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I closed my eyes.
For years, I had imagined grief as a room I had already walked through. Now I realized someone had locked doors inside it and hidden the keys.
“Adrian, did you forge my signature?”
“No.”
“Did Victor?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is not good enough anymore.”
“I know.”
For the first time, he sounded as though he did.
The next day was Adrian’s scheduled dinner with the boys.
I almost canceled. Mira advised me not to unless I had a clear reason involving the children’s well-being. The court order mattered. Stability mattered. And despite everything, Adrian was their father.
He arrived at five-thirty, not in the chauffeured black SUV he favored for company events, but in his own car. He wore jeans and a gray sweater. No watch. No Paige. No entourage.
The boys ran to him with cautious happiness.
He hugged them both longer than usual.
Samuel pulled back first. “Are we going to pizza?”
“If your mom says it’s okay.”
The boys turned to me.
Pizza had suddenly become a test of civilization.
“Pizza is okay,” I said.
