Blood and Promises
The travel from Sunset Marquis Hotel, West Hollywood to Isabella’s modest apartment, Silver Lake consumed the next hour. Headlights cut cold through the gathering dusk.
The air in Isabella’s apartment was thin, stale with the scent of burnt coffee and antiseptic soap. Gideon Harlow stood in the center of her living room—if you could call it that—a box of a space with a futon that doubled as a couch, a kitchen counter cluttered with prescription bottles, and a child’s drawing taped to the refrigerator. The crayon sketch showed three stick figures: a woman with long brown hair, a smaller figure with a shock of dark curls, and a man with no face.
Gideon’s attention snagged on that detail. A man with no face.
“Who is that boy, Isabella?” His voice came out low and sharp, cutting through the hum of the old refrigerator. “And why does he look exactly like me?”
Isabella stood by the window, arms crossed, her back to the gray-blue light of the winter storm pressing against the glass. She was thinner than he remembered. The woman who’d once laughed in a Monaco penthouse while wearing four-inch heels and a dress the color of champagne now looked like she hadn’t slept in a year. Her collarbones cast sharp shadows beneath her cardigan.
She didn’t turn around. “You have no right to ask me that.”
“I have every right.” Gideon took a step forward, then stopped himself. The space was too small for pacing, too intimate for a man used to boardrooms and ballrooms. He counted the tiles on the linoleum floor—twelve to the kitchen, eight to the window—as a way to anchor himself. “That boy came to my door. He was lost in a rainstorm, soaked through, shivering. He told me his name is Eli. And he has *my* eyes.”
Isabella’s shoulders tightened. A long moment passed, punctuated only by the rattling of the windowpane against the wind. Then, slowly, she turned. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line, but her eyes—those were the same eyes that had once looked at him like he was a man worth believing in.
“His name is Elias Waverly,” she said quietly. “He’s six years old. He likes dinosaurs and strawberry ice cream, and he cries when he watches the weather channel because he’s scared of thunderstorms.” She paused, her voice catching. “And yes. He’s yours.”
The words hit Gideon like a physical blow. He felt them in his chest, a sharp pressure behind his ribs. He blinked, once, twice, and found himself staring at the crayon drawing again. The man with no face. The stick figure that was supposed to be him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, and even he could hear the edge in his own voice. A razor wrapped in velvet.
Isabella let out a bitter laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You disappeared, Gideon. After Monaco, after that week—you vanished. Your father’s lawyers sent me a letter. A *letter*, hand-delivered by a man in a black sedan. They told me to forget I ever knew you. That any attempt to contact you would result in legal action.” She walked toward the kitchen counter, her fingers brushing over the prescription bottles. “I was twenty-two. I was alone. I had a baby who couldn’t stop crying, and no one to tell me why.”
Gideon’s jaw worked, but he forced himself to stop the motion. He’d learned long ago that anger was a weapon best sharpened in silence. “My father knew. About Eli.”
“Your father knew I was pregnant,” Isabella corrected, her voice cold. “He didn’t care about the baby. He cared about the scandal. About your engagement to Vivian Pemberton. About the merger that was going to make the Harlow family untouchable.” She picked up one of the bottles, turning it over in her hands. “I was a loose end. And he wanted me tied off.”
Gideon ran a hand through his hair, a rare break in composure. The clock on the wall ticked—a cheap plastic thing with a cracked face—and the sound filled the room like a metronome counting down to something inevitable. “Eli was at my office today because—”
“Because he wanted to find his father.” Isabella’s voice broke, and she set the bottle down with a clatter. “He’s been asking for months. He drew that picture. He said, ‘Mommy, does my daddy have a face?’ And I told him yes, he did, but I didn’t know how to draw it anymore.” She pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting for composure. “He saw your picture online. A charity gala, you in a tuxedo. He said, ‘Mommy, that man looks like me.’ And he figured out where your office was. He’s smart, Gideon. *Too* smart. He memorized the street address from an article.”
Gideon’s phone buzzed in his pocket—a call, probably Grant checking in—but he silenced it without looking. “Where is he now?”
“Sleeping. In my room. The storm scared him.” Isabella’s gaze softened, just briefly. “He’s always been afraid of storms. Since he was a baby. I used to hold him through every thunderclap, and he’d bury his face in my neck and whisper, ‘Make it stop, Mommy.’ And I couldn’t. God, I couldn’t.”
The confession hung in the air, raw and unpolished. Gideon stared at her, seeing the exhaustion carved into her features, the weight of six years of single motherhood pressing down on her shoulders. He thought of his penthouse—three thousand square feet of glass and steel, a bedroom he’d never used, a guest room that had never seen a guest. A life so empty he’d filled it with work.
“I want to meet him,” Gideon said. “Properly. As his father.”
Isabella’s expression flickered—fear, hope, suspicion warring in her eyes. She shook her head. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is that simple. I’m his father. He came looking for me. I’m not going to turn my back on him.” Gideon stepped closer, and this time she didn’t retreat. “I don’t care what my father threatened you with. I don’t care about the Pembertons or the merger or anything else. He’s my son.”
Isabella’s hands trembled as she reached for a manila folder on the counter. She handed it to him, her fingers brushing his. The contact was electric, a jolt of something familiar that Gideon hadn’t felt in years. He opened the folder and scanned the contents.
Medical records. Lab results. A diagnosis printed on hospital letterhead.
“Primary immunodeficiency,” Isabella said, her voice barely above a whisper. “His body doesn’t produce enough antibodies. He gets sick easily, and when he does, it’s bad. Pneumonia twice. A hospitalization last winter for a respiratory infection that almost turned septic.” She swallowed hard. “The doctors say there’s an experimental treatment. Gene therapy. It’s expensive, Gideon. I can’t afford it. I work two jobs and I’m still drowning in his medical bills.”
Gideon read the numbers. The treatment cost was astronomical—hundreds of thousands of dollars. But that wasn’t what made his blood run cold. It was the name listed as the referring physician.
Dr. Helena Ross.
He looked up. “Helena. Your friend.”
Isabella nodded. “She’s been Eli’s pediatrician since he was two. She’s the one who found the specialist. She’s been helping me navigate the insurance system, the applications for assistance.” A bitter smile touched her lips. “She’s the only reason I haven’t lost my mind.”
Gideon closed the folder. “I’ll pay for it.”
“Gideon—”
“I said I’ll pay for it.” His voice was firm, brooking no argument. “I’ll cover the treatment, the hospital bills, whatever he needs. And I’ll set up a trust fund for his education, his future. He’s not going to want for anything. Ever.”
Isabella stared at him, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “You don’t understand. It’s not just the money. The treatment requires him to be in the hospital for weeks. There are risks—serious risks. And even if it works, he’ll need follow-up care for years.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’ve been trying to do this alone because I didn’t have a choice. But now you’re here, and I don’t know how to trust that you’ll stay.”
The admission hit him like a blade between the ribs. He deserved that. He knew he deserved that.
“I’m not leaving,” he said. “Not again.”
The storm outside intensified, rain lashing against the windows. In the next room, a small voice called out—sleepy, confused. “Mommy?”
Isabella’s breath caught. She turned toward the hallway, where a faint light spilled from a half-open door. “I’ll be right there, baby,” she called, her voice steady despite the tears on her cheeks.
Gideon looked past her, into the darkness of the hallway. He could see the edge of a bed, a small lump under a dinosaur-patterned blanket. A boy. His son.
“Let me stay,” Gideon said quietly. “Tonight. Not to intrude. Just to be here. In case he wakes up again.”
Isabella studied him for a long moment, searching his face for something—deception, maybe, or a hint of the arrogance that had defined him in Monaco. But Gideon held her gaze, letting her see the truth: he was terrified, and he was determined, and he had no idea what he was doing.
“Okay,” she said finally. “But you sleep on the futon. And if you so much as think about calling your lawyers, I’ll—”
“You won’t have to,” he interrupted. “I’m not that man anymore.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded and disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Gideon stood alone in the cramped living room, the folder still clutched in his hand, the weight of the document pressing against his palm like a brand.
He opened it again, scanning the fine print. The experimental treatment was being run by a biotech firm called Pemberton-Core Laboratories. He read the name three times, each time hoping it would change.
It didn’t.
Pemberton-Core. Silas Pemberton’s company.
The timing was too precise, the coincidence too sharp. Silas had been aggressively trying to acquire Gideon’s real estate holdings for months, using every dirty trick in the book. If he knew about Eli—if he knew about the treatment—he’d have leverage. The kind of leverage that could destroy everything.
Gideon’s phone buzzed again. This time, he checked it.
The text was from an unknown number.
*I know about the boy. Let’s discuss a merger. Or else.*