The Boy With My Eyes
The barista’s name was Maria, and Gideon Voss knew she was terrified of him. He could see it in the way she positioned the espresso cup on its saucer as if she were defusing a bomb, her knuckles white against the ceramic. She didn’t look at his face; she looked at his left hand, at the platinum band that had been absent from tabloid photographs for the past six months. She was probably wondering if he was going to shatter the cup, flip the table, or simply start screaming about the iniquity of a world that had made him a pariah.
He did none of those things. He took the cup, nodded a thank-you that made her flinch, and retreated to the corner table he’d chosen specifically for its clear sightline to both the entrance and the emergency exit. Old habits. Or perhaps, simply habits. At forty-one, Gideon was less concerned with being ambushed by paparazzi than with being ambushed by his own reflection in the darkened glass of his phone. The man staring back from the lock screen was a stranger—a man with a producer’s bank account and a pariah’s reputation, named in seventeen lawsuits and one damning documentary, all orchestrated by the same family he was about to have lunch with.
He was early. He was always early. It was a power play, a habit learned from a decade of boardroom battles with Beckett Covington. Being early meant you were in control. It meant you could watch them walk in, could read the confidence in their stride before they even saw you. Today, he needed that advantage. Today, he had to sell the last piece of himself he owned to the devil in a tailored suit.
Café Veritas was a polished, minimalist space of white marble and matte black steel, a temple of pretentious neutrality favored by agents and managers who wanted their power plays to have a good Wi-Fi signal. The late-morning sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the dust motes in the air. The soundtrack was a low hum of conversation, the hiss of the steam wand, the percussive clatter of laptops. It was the sound of Los Angeles conducting its business, a mechanical orchestra of ambition. Gideon took a sip of his coffee. It was bitter, over-extracted, and too hot, but he appreciated the discomfort. It kept him present.
He saw her before she saw him.
The door chimed, a delicate, crystalline sound that cut through the murmur, and then she was there, stepping out of the glare of the street and into the cool gloom of the café. His hand froze halfway to the saucer. The coffee cup hovered in his grip, a stone in his throat forming where his next breath should have been.
Cassidy Reyes.
Seven years. Seven years since he’d seen her last, a decade and a half since he’d first met her—a temp from the mailroom with ink-stained fingers and eyes that had a screenplay’s worth of stories in them. His fingers had gone numb, the details screaming into his brain.
Her hair was shorter now, cut into a clean, sharp bob that framed her face, exposing the curve of her jaw he used to trace with his thumb. Her face was thinner, the softness of youth replaced by a taut, guarded stillness. She was wearing a simple gray dress, practical, understated. No jewelry. She’d always hated jewelry. She was beautiful, achingly so, a photograph from a life he’d been forcibly evicted from.
And then he saw the boy.
He was walking beside her, a miniature shadow clutching her hand. He was small for his age, with dark hair that fell in a defiant wave over his forehead, a cowlick he knew all too well. The boy’s head was down, his shoulders hunched, the posture of a kid trying to make himself smaller. He was quiet, a little island of stillness in the busy café.
Cassidy was guiding him toward the counter, her movements efficient, her voice a low murmur Gideon couldn’t decipher. She asked the barista a question, and the boy looked up, scanning the café. He was looking for the restrooms, probably. That’s when their eyes met.
Gideon felt the world tilt on its axis.
The boy had his eyes. The exact shape, the same dark, near-black irises. He had his dimple, the one that only appeared when he smiled, which was a rare and precious thing. And when the barista said something, the boy produced a nervous, huffing laugh that was a recording from a memory so old it felt like a ghost. Gideon’s own laugh. The laugh his mother used to call a “choked hiccup,” the laugh he’d passed down to a child he never knew existed.
The math was instantaneous, brutal, and incontrovertible. He counted back. The trip to Cabo. That last, chaotic weekend before “The Upwelling” premiered. Seven years, two months, and eleven days ago. The condom that must have broken. The missed call, the text he’d sent that was never answered. The abrupt, inexplicable way she’d ended things a week later, vanishing like a tide pulling back from the shore. The career push that had been a bribe to vanish, orchestrated by Covington, back when Gideon was still their golden goose.
It all snapped into place with a sickening, crystalline clarity.
Max.
He knew his name was Max. He didn’t know how he knew. Maybe he saw it in the way Cassidy’s hand tightened on the boy’s shoulder, a possessive gesture of protection. Or maybe he just knew. He felt a visceral pull, a physical ache in his chest that had nothing to do with the betrayal and everything to do with a connection so primal it bypassed his brain entirely and went straight to his marrow. That was his son. His flesh and blood. The boy with his eyes.
The boy—Max—pointed toward the seating area, and Cassidy finally turned to follow his gaze. Her eyes, those sharp, intelligent eyes he’d once memorized, found his. The blood drained from her face. Her entire body went rigid, her hand stilling on Max’s shoulder. For a single, silent moment, the world was just the two of them, a bridge of seven years and one devastating secret. He saw a flicker of something in her expression—panic, yes, but underneath it, a flash of memory, of a different time. Then it was gone, shuttered away so quickly he might have imagined it.
She leaned down, her lips close to Max’s ear, her voice a soft, hurried whisper. Without a backward glance, she steered him toward the emergency exit.
Gideon’s chair scraped against the marble floor, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet. He was on his feet, moving before he’d made the conscious decision to do so. He didn’t care about the meeting. He didn’t care about Beckett Covington or the contract that was his lifeline. All he cared about was the woman who’d lied to him for seven years and the boy who had his eyes.
“Cassidy,” he said. The word was meant to be a command, but it came out as a plea.
She froze, her hand on the silver push-bar of the exit door. Max looked up at her, then back at Gideon, confusion and a flicker of fear on his face.
She turned, her face a mask of polite, distant apology. “Gideon,” she said. The sound of his name on her lips, after all this time, was a physical blow. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.”
**“You’re not going anywhere.”** His words were a low growl, and he was aware of the other patrons glancing his way, recognizing him, the rise and fall of a drama beginning to unfold in real time.
Cassidy’s gaze flickered to the boy, then back to him. The mask was cracking, revealing a hint of steel underneath. “It’s good to see you. I hope you’re well.” She pulled the door open, a gust of warm wind and the smell of traffic bleating into the café.
“Is he mine?”
The three words hung in the air, heavy and terrible. Max went very still. Cassidy’s knuckles went white on the door handle. She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The silence was a confession louder than any scream.
Just as she was about to escape into the cacophony of the street, the door she was pushing outward swung inward. A man stepped through, blocking their exit.
Reid Covington. The heir apparent. He was tall and impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, with a smile that was all perfect teeth and zero warmth. A predator’s smile, practiced and disarming. He looked from Gideon’s face to Cassidy’s, to the boy frozen between them. A flicker of amusement touched his eyes.
“Gideon,” Reid said, his tone between a greeting and a mockery. “Fancy meeting you here. I thought we were doing lunch at the office.” He acted as if seeing a woman cowering and a scared child was a perfectly ordinary part of his morning.
Gideon ignored him, his eyes fixed on Cassidy. “Cassidy. Answer me.”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
Reid chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. He stepped deeper into the café, a draft of expensive cologne preceding him. He glanced at the boy, his gaze clinical and dismissive. “This is a rather unexpected development. It doesn’t matter, though,” he said, reaching into his inner jacket pocket. He pulled out a manila folder stamped with the Covington Media seal. He held it out to Gideon, the paper catching the light.
“Let’s not let a little… family reunion… derail our business, shall we?” Reid’s smile widened. “Here’s the new contract. A simple extension of your studio deal, for another five years. A formality, really. We know you have no other options.”
Gideon didn’t take the folder. “Why is she here, Reid?” He was seeing the whole tableau in his head now, a director’s eye framing the shot: the predator, the prey, and the innocent caught in the crossfire. It was a story as old as time, and he was the fool in the middle of it.
Reid sighed, a theatrical performance of exasperation. He exchanged a look with Cassidy, a shared understanding that made Gideon’s blood run cold. “We had a brief conversation prior to your arrival. I was simply explaining to Ms. Reyes the terms of the new NDA she will be signing, contingent upon your acceptance of the studio deal.”
“An NDA?” Gideon’s voice was dangerously quiet.
“Standard practice, really. Protecting the studio’s intellectual property. And, of course, the privacy of certain… family matters.” Reid flicked a glance at the boy, then back to the folder in his hand. He opened it. Inside, on top of a stack of dense legal text, was a glossy photograph.
It was a school photo. A studio portrait of Max, wearing a navy blue blazer and a striped tie. His smile was hesitant, but the dimple was there. In the corner, in ornate gold lettering: St. Matthew’s Academy, Grade 1.
Gideon’s world narrowed to that single photograph. It was a weapon, a threat so casually presented and devastatingly effective. Reid Covington knew. He had to have known all along. He was holding a weapon built from his own son’s face.
Reid tapped the photo of Max in his school uniform and smiled. “Sign the extension, Voss—or the next time I hand you a picture of him, it’ll be a missing poster.”