Chapter 3 - The Arithmetic of Deceit
For several seconds, the only sound that registered in Declan’s consciousness was the sweet, innocent chatter of the three children clustered around the woman he had discarded five years ago.
Cassidy remained on the ground, entirely consumed by her daughters. She smoothed down the ruffled skirt of Lily’s burgundy dress, straightened the pale-pink ribbon in Sophie’s hair, and wiped a speck of lint from Ava’s navy collar. Her hands were gentle, practiced, radiating a ferocious, maternal warmth that Declan had never witnessed during their cold, calculated marriage in Buckhead. Back then, their life had been a parade of charity galas, country club luncheons, and silent dinners in a five-million-dollar dining room where emotional displays were treated like vulgar infractions.
Declan’s dark hazel eyes darted frantically across the three little girls.
They were identical. It was undeniable. The same delicate, porcelain skin with fair, rosy undertones; the same fine, aristocratic bridge of the nose; the same thick, golden-brown hair that tumbled past their shoulders in cascading ringlets. They were dressed in the exact same bespoke silhouette, differentiated only by the deliberate colors of their dresses: burgundy, navy, and pink.
A cold, sickening weight dropped straight into the pit of Declan’s stomach. The noise of the airport traffic faded into a muffled, underwater hum, drowned out by the deafening roar of his own racing pulse.
Five years.
It had been five years since the divorce was finalized in the Fulton County courthouse. Five years since he had handed her a standard settlement agreement, told her she was walking away from the Hawthorne empire with nothing, and watched her walk out of his life without shedding a single tear. He had spent the last half-decade convincing himself that she was struggling, that she was regretting her defiance, that she was living in some modest suburban apartment dreaming of the luxury she had thrown away.
Yet here she was. Polished, breathtaking, stepping out of an international flight into the arms of three children whose existence was an absolute, terrifying mystery.
Declan took a slow, heavy step forward. His leather-soled oxfords felt like lead weights against the pavement. The woman in the burgundy dress reached out to touch his elbow, her voice hesitant and shrill against the roar of the terminal.
"Declan? Honey, what is this? Who are they?"
Declan didn't hear her. He didn't even acknowledge the hand that slipped from his arm. His vision was tunneled, locked with predatory, horrified focus onto the back of Cassidy’s powder-blue jacket.
"How old are they?" Declan asked.
The question did not carry the smooth, commanding timber he had used moments before. It was rough, cracked at the edges, stripped entirely of its polished arrogance. It was the voice of a man who had suddenly discovered an abyss opening beneath his feet.
Cassidy did not jump. She took a slow, steady breath, pressing one final kiss into Sophie’s curls before rising gracefully to her feet. She smoothed the front of her trousers, brushed a stray speck of dust from her knee, and turned around to face him.
She stood tall in her cream pumps, her shoulders squared, her expressive eyes completely calm. Beside her, the three girls immediately crowded against her legs—Lily clinging to her right hip, Ava peeking out from behind her left thigh, and Sophie holding tightly to the fabric of her slacks.
Cassidy looked directly into Declan’s wide, searching eyes. Her expression was entirely natural, revealing neither fear nor triumph—only the flat, unyielding truth.
"Four," Cassidy answered smoothly.
The word hung between them like a blade suspended on a thread.
Declan didn't move. He didn't breathe.
Four.
The arithmetic began to execute behind his dark eyes with ruthless, mathematical precision. Four years old. That meant they were born roughly four years ago. Add nine months of gestation.
Forty-eight months. Plus nine. Fifty-seven months.
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Five years ago, sixty months back, they had spent one final, catastrophic week together in the Buckhead penthouse trying to negotiate the terms of their separation. A week of bitter arguments, slamming doors, and one desperate, whiskey-fueled night of raw, destructive passion where they had collided in the dark like dying stars before the lawyers arrived with the final paperwork on Friday morning.
Declan’s throat constricted so violently he felt as though he were choking on dry sand. His knuckles turned translucent white inside the pockets of his trousers.
