He stared at the image avidly, his finger tracing the soft curve of one chubby cheek. She was getting so big. He added the picture to the album he had titled Clara and flipped through the four months’ worth of photos slowly, working back from today’s to the first one he’d received from Harris about a week after Olivia had walked out of the hospital and his life. The angry, wrinkled, wet face, mouth open, gums gleaming as she cried. The picture broke a piece of his heart, as it did whenever he saw it. He knew she was probably crying because she was hungry or needed a nappy change, but every time he looked at the photo, he ached to pick her up, to cradle her as he should have that first day, to protect her, love her, and soothe her.
But he had thrown that privilege away. Had tossed her and Olivia aside without once considering the consequences. Always so certain he was right.
He had failed as a husband, and he had failed as a father . . .
He shook his head in self-disgust.
A father.
All these years of feeling less than whole. Of feeling somehow lacking. All because he had been too damned proud to go for a second opinion. Because going to another doctor—to a fertility specialist—would have made it seem important to him. Would have made him look like he cared. And he hadn’t wanted to care.
No. That was wrong . . .
He hadn’t wanted anyone to know that he cared.
His worst fear—unacknowledged even to himself—was having the belief that he was incapable of doing something so fucking basic reinforced. No kids for him. No grandchildren for his parents. No niece or nephew for his brother.
And no child for his wife.
He should have gone to another doctor once Olivia had agreed to marry him. He should have checked. But he had been too damned proud, too afraid of failing again. He hadn’t had to check. He’d thought he already had all the answers.
His wife was pregnant? She must have cheated. That had been his answer, his universal fucking truth.
He shook his head again, choking back a bitter laugh.
He hadn’t just failed as a husband and as a father . . . most importantly, he had failed as a man.
Once he had believed that his supposed infertility made him less of a man. But this, his treatment of Olivia. Of Harris . . .
Of Clara.
That was what made him less of a man. That was where he had fallen down.
He buried his face in his hands and longed for a drink. But he was rationing himself there as well. No more alcohol.
Drinking himself into a stupor would in no way make him the better man he was striving to be.
He lifted his head and glanced at his watch.
Twenty minutes to go. His eyes fell to the folder again. He could no longer fight the urge to open it. And while he knew he didn’t deserve this fix, he was too weak and selfish to resist it.
He reached for it, opened it carefully, and stared down at the latest collection of photos his investigator had sent him. The man was old fashioned and paranoid—he never emailed information. Instead, every week, he brought his latest update straight to Greyson’s office.
The folder remained on Greyson’s desk, and every day he allowed himself a glimpse into Olivia’s life. Today was special, because there were new pictures, updates, and anecdotes about how she was doing. He knew he shouldn’t be keeping tabs on her, knew it was invasive and that he had absolutely no right, but he told himself he was watching out for her. Making sure she was doing all right.
He exhaled on a shuddering sigh as he stared down at the two-dimensional pictures. They didn’t do her justice. She was so beautiful. He was happy to see she was putting on some weight again. She had looked positively gaunt those first couple of months. But now her wavy black hair was glossy with health, and despite the encroaching cold, wet winter weather, her perfect brown skin had a sun-kissed golden glow to it. He knew it was warm and silky to the touch.
Like so many other Capetonians, Olivia was of multiracial descent, going back several generations. She was exotically beautiful and had always fascinated him with her big, luminous light-brown eyes; her heart-shaped, generous mouth; and her slender athlete’s body. He’d hidden that fascination, of course; she was the only daughter of longtime family employees and had grown up in the Chapman house, and Greyson wasn’t going to be that guy.
It had felt wrong to want her, and he hadn’t acted on his attraction until he’d seen her at a party more than a year ago. She had been so independent, talented, smart, and absolutely gorgeous, and added to the fact that her parents had retired the year before, he hadn’t been able to resist her. They had fallen into bed that very first night, and it had stunned him to discover she was a virgin. It had felt right to offer her marriage. He had pushed for marriage, and it had soon become all he could think about. All he wanted.