26 Lucas, please don't put that in your mouth, sweetheart," I said, gently extracting a decorative pebble from my son's determined grip. "Mommy needs you to be good for just a few more minutes." My one-year-old son looked up at me with his father's eyes-intelligent, stubborn, and already developing that signature Bailey intensity. He considered my request for approximately three seconds before lunging for another pebble in the decorative planter. "And this is why I should have left you with Grandpa," I muttered, scooping him up and balancing him on my hip as I juggled the keys to Shepherd Design Studio. It had been exactly one week since our return to Northbrook, and already I was wondering if I'd made a mistake. Paris had become comfortable-a place where I knew the rhythms, had built a support network, and most importantly, where I didn't have to worry about running into Lucas Bailey at every corner. The flight back had been exhausting but manageable, little Lucas surprisingly cooperative given the circumstances. My father had met us at the airport, whisking us directly to his estate where he'd prepared th east wing for our stay-complete with a nursery adjacent to my bedroom, childproofed furniture, and a collection of toys that suggested he'd been planning this homecoming for months. "Stay as long as you need," he'd said, watching his grandson toddle around his living room with undisguised delight. "The east wing is yours." What he hadn't said, but what hung in the air between us, was the question of Lucas-the elder one. Whether intended to tell him I was back. Whether I planned to let him meet his son. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," was all I'd say on the subject. But privately, I knew I was being unfair. Lucas had a right to know his son, to be part of his life. I just wasn't ready to face him myself. Not yet. Not when I still woke from dreams of our last night together, my body remembering his touch even as my mind struggled to make sense of everything that had happened since. I finally managed to unlock the studio door, nudging it open with my hip while keeping a firm grip on my squirming son. The space smelled musty from disuse, dust covers draped over the furniture, mail piled high on the reception desk. "Welcome to Mommy's studio, little man," I said, setting Lucas down on a clear patch of floor. "This is where we're going to start over." Victoria had kept the business running in my absence, focusing on her own clients while maintaining relationships with mine. She'd been surprisingly supportive of my sudden return, offering to help me reestablish myself without a single "I told you so" about my extended Parisian exile. "There's plenty of work to go around," she'd assured me over coffee the day after my return. "The Henderson hotel chain is expanding, and they specifically asked if you'd be available when you returned. And the Prescot renovation is finally moving forward." I was grateful for her loyalty, and for her discretion. She hadn't mentioned Lucas Bailey once during our reunion, though I could tell she was bursting with questions about my son, about Paris, about why I'd stayed away so long. My phone buzzed with a text from my father: [Dinner at 7. Cook is making that pasta you like.] I smiled, typing back a quick acknowledgment. At least some things hadn't changed-my father's way of showing affection through practical gestures rather than words. "Okay, buddy," I said, turning back to my son, who had discovered a fabric swatch book and was methodically pulling it apart. "Time to go shopping. Mommy needs to get this place functional again." Little Lucas looked up with a grin that was pure mischief, a smear of dust across his chubby cheek. Despite my exhaustion and anxiety, my heart swelled with love for this small person who had become my entire world. Whatever happened with his father, I would make sure my son had everything he needed-including, eventually, the truth about the man whose name he carried. Over the next few days, I settled into a cautious routine. Mornings at my father's estate with little Lucas, playing in the garden or exploring the nearby woods. Afternoons at the studio while my son napped under the watchful eye of Mrs. Patterson, a retired kindergarten teacher my father had hired as a part-time nanny. Evenings at home, relearning American life after a year abroad. 'You're going to have to tell him eventually," Victoria said one afternoon as we reviewed fabric samples for th Henderson project. "Lucas, I mean. The older one." I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "I know. I'm just trying to get my bearings first. Everything feels so strange being back." Victoria fixed me with a penetrating look. "He asks about you, you know. Even after all this time. Every few weeks, he stops by the studio, just to check if I've heard anything." A pang of guilt shot through me. "What do you tell him?" "That you're fine. That you needed space. That you'd be in touch when you were ready." She hesitated. "I didn't tell him about the baby. That wasn't my news to share." I nodded gratefully. "Thank you." "But Autumn," Victoria leaned forward, her expression serious. "Northbrook isn't Paris. It's only a matter of time before you run into him. Or before someone who knows you both sees you with little Lucas. That baby is the spitting image of his father-anyone who knows Lucas Bailey would see it instantly." She was right, of course. My son had inherited his father's dark hair, his strong jawline, even his characteristic Chapter 26 One Year Later furrowed brow when concentrating on a task. The resemblance was unmistakable to anyone who knew Luca well. "I'll tell him," I promised. "Soon. I just need a little more time." But time, it seemed, was not on my side. The very next day, as I was reviewing the reopening announcement for Shepherd Design Studio, my father appeared in the doorway of my bedroom, his expression unusually grave. "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "William Bailey called. He wants to meet for lunch tomorrow to welcome you back to Northbrook, he says." I stared at him, momentarily speechless. "How does he even know I'm back?" "It's a small town, Autumn. Especially in certain circles." My father sighed. "I can make an excuse if you want. Tell him you're not feeling well, or that you're too busy settling in." I considered it, tempted by the reprieve a white lie would offer. But delaying the inevitable wouldn't make it any easier. "No," I said finally. "Tell him I'll meet him. Alone." "And the baby?" "Mrs. Patterson can watch him here." I took a deep breath. "I need to do this on my own terms, Dad. Before Lucas finds out from someone else." My father nodded, relief evident in his expression. "I think that's wise. For what it's worth, I don't think William knows about his great-grandson yet. He seemed genuinely interested in just catching up with you." The next day, I dressed with unusual care for my lunch with William Bailey-a simple navy sheath dress that conveyed professionalism without trying too hard, pearl earrings that had belonged to my mother, hair smoothed into a sleek chignon. Armor, of a sort, against whatever awaited me. The restaurant William had chosen was one of Northbrook's oldest and most exclusive establishments, a place where the elite had been making deals and celebrating milestones for generations. As I was escorted t his table, I saw him stand-still impressively tall despite his age, impeccably dressed as always, his silver hai gleaming under the crystal chandeliers. "Autumn," he greeted me, leaning in to kiss my cheek. "You look lovely. Paris clearly agreed with you." I allowed the kiss, taking the seat the maitre d' held for me. "William. It's good to see you looking so well. I heard about your health scare last year." He waved a dismissive hand. "A minor setback. I'm as strong as ever now." His sharp eyes studied me with disconcerting intensity. "But we're not here to discuss my health, are we?" I took a sip of water, buying time. "Why are we here, William? I doubt it's just to welcome me back to Northbrook." A smile flickered across his face. "Direct as always. I've always appreciated that about you." He leaned back as a waiter appeared to take our orders, waiting until we were alone again before continuing. "I wanted to see you before my grandson does." My hand stilled on my water glass. "I see." "Do you?" William's gaze was penetrating. "Lucas has been... different since you left. More focused on business, yes, but also more withdrawn. He doesn't attend family functions unless absolutely required. Spends most of his time either at the office or alone at the penthouse." I wasn't sure how to respond to this unexpected description of Lucas's past year. Had he truly been affected by my departure? Or was William simply trying to manipulate me, as he had manipulated so many situations throughout his long life? 'I'm sorry to hear that," I said carefully. "But I'm not sure what it has to do with me. We've been divorced for over a year." William's eyes narrowed slightly. "We both know it was never that simple between you two." He sighed, some of his usual commanding presence softening. "I'm an old man, Autumn. I don't have time for games or pretense anymore. So let me be blunt: Do you intend to tell my grandson about his son?" The question hit like a physical blow. I stared at William, shock rendering me momentarily speechless. "How did you-" " "Know?" He smiled, though there was little humor in it. "I make it my business to know things, my dear. Especially things that affect my family. And that child-your child-is a Bailey, whether he carries the name or not." I took a steadying breath. "His name is Lucas William Shepherd." Something flickered in the old man's eyes-surprise, perhaps, or a deeper emotion I couldn't identify. "You gave him my name?" "His father's name. And yours." I met his gaze directly. "I never intended to keep him a secret forever, William. just needed time." "Time for what, exactly?" "To figure out what I wanted. What was best for my son. To be strong enough to face Lucas and whatever reaction he might have." William nodded slowly. "And have you? Figured it out?" I thought about the past year-the journey from terrified new mother to the woman I was now, more confident, more certain of what I wanted and needed. "I think so. I'm going to tell him. Soon." "Good." William signaled to the waiter for more water. "Because regardless of the complicated history 212 Store Do Year Later. between you, that boy deserves to know his father. And Lucas deserves to know his son." I couldn't argue with that. It was the truth I'd been avoiding for months, the reality that had finally brought me back to Northbrook. "There's something else you should know," William continued, his tone gentler than I'd ever heard it. "Lucas has changed this past year. Grown up, perhaps. Faced some hard truths about himself, about the past." He fixed me with a penetrating look. "He's not the same man you left behind." Before I could respond, our food arrived, temporarily halting the conversation. As we ate, William skillfully steered the discussion to safer topics-my time in Paris, my plans for the design studio, developments in Northbrook during my absence. But his earlier words lingered in my mind, raising questions I hadn't allowed myself to consider. Had Lucas truly changed? And if so, what did that mean for us-for our son, for the complicated history between us, for the future I was still trying to envision? "I won't tell him about the baby," William said as we prepared to leave. "That's your news to share. But don't wait too long, Autumn. Some opportunities, once missed, never come again." With that cryptic advice, he kissed my cheek again and departed, leaving me with more questions than answers and the uneasy feeling that my carefully constructed plans were already beginning to unravel. That night, as I watched my son sleeping peacefully in his crib, I made a decision. I would tell Lucas about his child-not immediately, but soon. Within the week, once I'd properly reopened the studio and established some semblance of routine. I would call him, arrange a meeting on neutral ground, and face whatever came next. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.