Chapter 5
Jessica, the museum director, had no forwarding information. The small diner where we used to sit by the window had never known his last name. Boston swallowed him whole.
Three weeks later, I stood in my bathroom at dawn staring at two pink lines on a pregnancy test.
I called the disconnected number anyway.
I searched online until my eyes burned.
I drove past the apartment building twice.
Nothing.
When I told my parents, my mother sank into a kitchen chair as if I had announced a death. My father asked for the father’s full name, employer, family, address. I had almost none of it.
“You were used,” he said.
“He loved me,” I whispered.
“A man who loves you does not vanish.”
I had no answer. That was the cruelest part.
They told me to end the pregnancy or arrange an adoption. They said I was still young enough to recover. They said mistakes did not need to become lifelong consequences.
But when I heard Noah’s heartbeat for the first time, fast and stubborn and alive, I knew I could lose everything else and still choose him.
So I did.
The birth was long, frightening, and lonely. A nurse named Carla held my hand when the contractions came so hard I thought my bones would split. She told me I was strong. I did not feel strong. I felt abandoned, humiliated, terrified.
Then Noah cried.
They placed him on my chest, red-faced and furious at the world, and I started sobbing so hard the nurse laughed through her own tears.
“There he is,” Carla said. “Your little fighter.”
After my family threw us out, Jessica helped me find a small apartment over a florist shop two towns away. It smelled like roses in the morning and wet cardboard when it rained. The radiators clanked at night. The windows leaked cold air. But it was ours.
Jessica arranged for me to restore smaller pieces from home. I worked during Noah’s naps, bent over canvases while bottles dried on a rack beside my solvents and brushes. Some nights I cried from exhaustion. Some mornings I woke with Noah’s hand resting on my neck and felt richer than anyone in Maplewood.
The museum staff became my family in ways blood had refused to be. Sarah at reception watched Noah when I had meetings. Linda from administration brought casseroles. Jessica promoted my work quietly but fiercely.
Eight months after Noah’s birth, Jessica called me into her office.
“I have something major,” she said.
Noah sat in his stroller chewing on a rubber giraffe.
“Major good or major terrifying?” I asked.
“Both.” Jessica slid a folder across her desk. “Foster International is sending a seventeenth-century Dutch painting for restoration. Private collection. Extremely valuable. They asked for someone meticulous, discreet, and gifted.”
I stared at the folder. “Foster International? The global company?”
“The same.”
“I’m not qualified for something like this.”
Jessica leaned back. “Olivia, you are exactly qualified. Stop speaking in your father’s voice.”
That struck me silent.
“The compensation is generous,” she added. “Enough for a better apartment. Maybe childcare help. Maybe breathing room.”
I placed my hand on the folder. For the first time in months, the future opened a crack.
The meeting was scheduled for the next morning.
I wore the only formal dress I still owned, navy blue with sleeves that hid the weight I had lost too quickly after childbirth. Linda watched Noah in the office next door while I walked into the museum conference room with my portfolio held against my chest.
A man stood at the window.
Tall. Dark hair. One hand in his pocket. Still as a memory.
When he turned, my heart stopped.
“Miles.”
His face changed as if my name had hit him in the chest.
“Olivia.”
The folder slipped from my hands. Papers scattered across the polished floor.
He was not wearing jeans or a navy sweater now. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, a silk tie, expensive shoes, and the controlled expression of a man used to boardrooms, not little museum workshops. Two representatives stood near him, watching with careful confusion.
Jessica hurried in behind me. “Oh. You two know each other?”
I could not look away from him.
Miles took one step forward. “Yes.”
One of the representatives cleared his throat. “Mr. Foster, would you like us to begin with the contract details?”
Mr. Foster.
I almost laughed. It came out like a breath.
Jessica blinked. “Olivia, this is Miles Foster, acting CEO of Foster International.”
The room blurred.
Acting CEO.
Not researcher. Not modest art lover. Not the man who disappeared because life became complicated.
A billionaire heir.
May you like
A stranger.
I picked up one sheet of paper because my hands needed something to do. “Of course,” I said, though my voice sounded far away. “Let’s discuss the painting.”
