Chapter 3

Magnus

I sat in the leather chair with a cigarette between my fingers, staring vacantly at the woman in the photograph.

Her name was Eileen. My wife.

The mother of my child.

A woman who, even in death, remained a stranger to me.

Our marriage had been a transaction between two powerful families — two strangers standing before God and swearing to love each other for life.

The pregnancy was an accident.

We had both had too much to drink at a gala. From conception to delivery, everything proceeded without complication.

The baby weighed seven pounds, eight ounces.

But Eileen never came out of that room. Without warning, I became the sole guardian of a newborn.

God has a vicious sense of humor.

After Eileen's death, I chose not to make it public. I didn't want my son growing up under the weight of people's pity or curiosity.

I hired lactation consultants — many of them.

Strangely enough, my son refused to latch onto any of them. Not once.

Until today.

I had expected this woman to be like all the others — another failed attempt I would have to send away. But she wasn't.

She placed her hands on her own breasts and looked at me. Ashamed, yes — but stubborn. Defiant, even in her humiliation.

A sharp, acrid smell suddenly filled the air.

I glanced down. The cigarette had burned down to my fingertips.

I was about to stub it out when Lydia burst into the room, breathless, telling me the baby was screaming.

I went in to find every maid in the house gathered around the crib, all of them looking like the world was ending.

"Call Valerie back. Right now."

I wiped clumsily at the tears streaking down my son's face, my chest tight.

"Just a little longer. She'll be here soon."

And she was.

Before long, I saw Valerie appear in the doorway.

She had come — rushing back in the middle of whatever chaos she'd been dealing with — just when I had nothing left to offer.

I didn't know why, but I felt myself exhale.

I watched as she scooped the baby up and held him against her chest.

"There, there, sweet boy. No more crying. I'm here…"

And then, impossibly, he stopped.

The baby who had been screaming for nearly an hour went silent in her arms, just like that.

I stared. I shouldn't have been surprised — I had suspected as much — but it still caught me off guard.

There was something about this woman that the others didn't have.

Softness. Warmth. The faint, sweet scent of milk.

"Everyone out," she said quietly.

I didn't argue. I stepped out with the others and closed the door behind me.

---

In the hallway, my phone rang.

Maria. My ward. I had brought her home from St. Maria's Orphanage fifteen years ago.

"Good evening, Father. I hope I'm not disturbing you."

The same careful, tentative tone she always used. I leaned against the railing and cut her off coldly.

"You are."

She gave an awkward little laugh.

"I'm sorry, Father. It's just that Jonathan wanted to meet with you, so I was hoping I could bring him by tonight —"

"Does he deserve it?"

I rarely spoke to Maria this way. I gave her everything she needed — tuition at the best schools, a generous allowance, total freedom in her personal life.

But that did not mean I would tolerate this.

"Does he deserve his wife and child?"

Maria scrambled to respond.

"Father, it's not what you think. Jonathan and his wife haven't been in love for a long time. The separation is better for both of them —"

"Better?"

I let out a short, humorless laugh.

"I brought you out of that orphanage when you were fifteen. I've raised you for fifteen years. Not so you could destroy someone else's marriage."

"Father —"

"I'm not available the day after tomorrow. Or any day after that."

I hung up.

I shoved the phone into my pocket and realized, suddenly, that I could no longer hear anything from the nursery.

A frown pulled at my brow. Something felt wrong.

I pushed the door open.

The sound of running water filled the room.

I looked toward the bathroom — and froze.

The door was cracked open. A soft cloud of steam drifted out, white and thick, like fresh milk bread rising in the oven.

Inside, the woman was completely naked.

Her skin was pale and flushed pink from the heat. Her waist was narrow, her hips full and curved. Water ran down the slope of her breasts and clung to the tips — droplets hanging there, trembling, catching the light.

She shook her hair out. Her chest swayed gently with the motion.

Perhaps she felt my gaze. Through the haze of steam, her eyes found mine.

We stared at each other.