His father had treated this woman—his wife and her children—like possessions, something to own, to use, to control. To break. And yet, despite all of that, she still found it in herself to love Atlas like a son.

Love in spite of.

Love in the ruins.

He simply nods, his face unreadable, but I can’t stop looking at him, can’t stop wondering what else is buried beneath that rough, guarded exterior. What’s beneath the scars and the painful history he carries with him.

There has to be some goodness there. If a man like him—someone who’s seen the worst of people—can believe in unconditional love, then maybe it exists. Maybe it’s real.

I just . . . I’ve never experienced it.

Honestly, I don’t know if love is that simple.

But somehow, I want to believe.

I want to believe that when this little one arrives, something inside me will shift. That I’ll be able to accept. To love. To be something more than the fear and doubt clawing at me now.

I want to believe that love—real love—won’t always feel like something I have to run from.

Chapter Seventeen

Atlas

What the fuck was I thinking, bringing her to the cemetery and telling her about Therese?

The answer is simple—I wasn’t thinking at all.

Everything I said, everything I unearthed, are things I keep locked so deep inside me that only a handful of people know. And yet, I handed it over to her like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t earned it. Like she wasn’t a stranger.

Why?

Was it her fear? The way she spoke about the kid like he was a problem she didn’t know how to solve? Or was it the heartbeat, that small, rhythmic sound that already carried the sting of rejection?

For a second—just a second—I wondered. If my mother had known the truth about my father before I was born, would she have hated me for it? Would she have looked at me and seen nothing but a mistake?

But that thought didn’t last long. Because I know she loved me.

And that’s why I had to say something to Blythe before it was too late. Before, she let herself believe there was no space in her heart for this child. Before she let the fear decide for her. Because if she doesn’t choose him now before he even gets here, what chance does he have?

The drive back is quiet. Too quiet.

Blythe stares out the window, hood pulled up, arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to make her body disappear. Like if she curls in tight enough, stays still enough, she might slip through the cracks and escape whatever’s clawing at her from the inside.

She hasn’t said a word since we left the cemetery.

I shouldn’t care.