Jeannie lifts her gray-brown brows, shoulders sinking, disappointment etched into the fine lines of her middle-aged face.
“Well. If you were to decline custody,” she says, “we would normally contact next of kin. Usually it’s other aunts or uncles, grandparents. If no one is able to care for the child, she would remain in the state’s system until she is adopted … which could take years. She could live in dozens of homes before she finds a permanent placement, and even then, there’s no guarantee.”
“Spare me the guilt trip. I’m simply gathering information.”
“Of … of course,” she stammers, hands clasped in her lap. “I know there’s a lot to think about, a lot to consider. I can tell you that Honor is a beautiful, sweet little girl. Extremely intelligent. Outgoing. Healthy. Charming. I can’t imagine it’ll be difficult finding a permanent placement for her, but of course, there’s no guarantee. I have a few more pictures, if you’d like to see … she’s such a doll.”
I snort.
As if a child’s cuteness could make or break my decision …
I’m not my damn mother.
Jeannie’s oblivious to my disdain of her suggestion, and her expression lights as she sorts through the paperwork file and produces a handful of color photos, mostly candids.
She hands me one—a wallet-sized school portrait, and it’s all I can do to keep from losing my shit when I’m met with the distinctive, icy-blue Schoenbach gaze staring back at me.
The dark hair.
The pale blue, deep set eyes and fringe of black lashes.
The creamy tan complexion.
This little girl looks nothing like Larissa—and everything like a Schoenbach.
Errol Schoenbach, if I had to guess.
My mother’s words echo in my mind, “If you only knew the things I’ve done to protect this family … to protect our name …”
A scandal like this would have demolished my mother’s prestigious reputation, shaken her social circle, made a joke out of our name, and dented our business dealings. The aftershocks of this dirty little secret would’ve been felt for years, and given the tough climate of Chicago’s high society, I can’t imagine there would’ve been any coming back from something as humiliating as this.
Your son has a lovechild with his adopted sister? That’s not something people are going to forget any time soon, if ever.
She would have been an outcast.
Unveiling this information would be social suicide for someone like my mother, a death sentence of the worst kind.
“Honor’s with a nice family for the time being,” Jeannie says. “But they aren’t looking to adopt … in fact, her foster mother just found out she’s pregnant. Not planned. Complete surprise. Twins, no less. But that means in the next several months, they’re going to have to cut back on the number of kids they take in—if they even decide to continue fostering. There’s a good chance Honor will be moved to a new placement in the coming months, and there’s no guarantee it’ll be in the same school district. She attends Starwood Academy and she’s absolutely thriving there—”
“—that’s enough.”
Jeannie sits straighter, her mouth still open but no sound emerging.
“I’ll take her.” I place the photos back in the folder—everything but the school portrait.
“A … are you sure?”
I’m hardly qualified to raise a child, but staring at the spitting image of my brother, the angelic little girl who’s been swept under rug after rug like a dirty little secret all so that my mother could brunch at the Diamond Ivy Club on Sundays and vacation with Vanderbilts, Astors, and Rothschilds—makes me feel some kind of way.
“Just give me a couple of weeks to get a few things in order.” I rise, button my suit coat, and show her out. “I’ll be in touch.”
Jeannie leaves, speechless, shuffling off in her orthopedic shoes.
I secure the door behind her and return to my desk to compose an email to my assistant telling her to drop any and all non-time sensitive projects, clear my schedule for the week, and meet me in my office when she’s done.
Reaching for my coffee, I rise from my desk and peer into the gray cityscape outside, contemplating all the ways my life is about to change from this moment on.
I’m contemplating some of those ways when wet warmth soaks through my dress shirt. The fabric sticking to my skin, and when I glance down, I discover my mug is leaking and my shirt is ruined for the day.
I grab a spare from my closet and head to my private bathroom to change.
Standing before the mirror, I unfasten each button, starting at the top. Three buttons later, my gaze settles on the year-old scar that runs down the center of my chest, the physical reminder that another man’s heart beats inside of me.
Twenty-five percent of heart transplant patients won’t live to see another five years, and for that reason alone, I’d be a fool to adopt this girl, to gamble with fate.