31 The first overnight visit was a success, according to Lucas. Little Lucas had slept through the night in the meticulously recreated nursery, had eaten all his meals without fuss, and had apparently delighted in exploring every inch of the penthouse that had once been my home too. "He found the piano fascinating," Lucas told me as he returned our son to my father's estate Sunday afternoon. "I played a little for him, and he tried to join in. I think we might have a musician on our hands." I smiled, taking little Lucas from his father's arms. "He loves music. We used to listen to classical in Paris while I worked on designs." "Mozart?" Lucas guessed. "Bach," I corrected. "He has surprisingly sophisticated taste for someone who still puts Cheerios in his ears." Lucas laughed, the sound relaxed and genuine in a way I rarely heard during our marriage. "Takes after his mother, then." These moments of easy conversation had become more frequent in the three weeks since our chance meeting at the mall. Lucas had slipped into fatherhood with surprising ease, establishing a routine of daily visits and, now, weekend overnights. Our son had accepted this new presence in his life without reservation, his face lighting up whenever his father appeared, tiny arms reaching out in unmistakable welcome. For my part, I remained cautious. I welcomed Lucas's involvement with our son, facilitated their growing bon in every way I could, but maintained careful emotional distance when it came to our own relationship. "I should get back," Lucas said, glancing at his watch. "I've got a conference call with Tokyo in an hour." "Of course." I shifted little Lucas to my hip. "We'll see you Tuesday? For the doctor's appointment?" Lucas nodded, his expression turning serious. "I wouldn't miss it. His first checkup since I've... since I've known him." The reminder of all Lucas had missed-the milestones, the firsts, the everyday moments of our son's life- hung between us, neither accusatory nor forgiven, simply acknowledged. "Three o'clock," I confirmed. "We'll meet you there." Lucas hesitated, then reached out to brush a dark curl from our son's forehead. The gesture was tender, almost reverent. "He needs a haircut," he observed. "Getting a bit shaggy." "I know. I just can't bring myself to cut those baby curls yet." Lucas smiled, understanding in his eyes. "No rush. They're perfect as they are." His hand lingered for a moment, then dropped back to his side. "Goodbye, buddy. Be good for your mom." Little Lucas babbled something in response, a series of nonsense syllables that nevertheless sounded remarkably like "Bye-bye, da." After Lucas left, I took our son to the garden, watching as he toddled across the lawn, stopping to examine every flower, leaf, and interesting pebble with the intense concentration of the very young. My father joined u settling into a nearby chair with the Sunday paper. "Lucas is good with him," he remarked, watching his grandson's explorations. "Natural." I nodded, unable to disagree. "He is." "And how are things between you two?" I shot my father a look. "We're co-parenting. Successfully, I think." "That's not what I asked." I sighed, plucking a dandelion from the grass. "I don't know, Dad. It's complicated." 'Only because you're making it complicated," he observed, turning a page of his newspaper. "The man is clearly still in love with you." 'He thinks he is," I corrected. "But after everything... I can't just forget what happened. I can't pretend those two years didn't exist." My father lowered his paper, fixing me with the penetrating look that had intimidated business associates for decades but had never worked on me. "No one's asking you to forget, Autumn. But at some point, you have to decide whether holding onto the past is worth sacrificing the future." Before I could formulate a response, my phone rang-Lucas's ringtone, which I'd never changed even during our year of separation. 'Hello?" 'Autumn." His voice sounded strange-strained but excited. "I need to ask you something." 'What is it? Is everything okay?" 'More than okay." He paused. "My grandfather wants to meet his great-grandson. Today, if possible. I know it' short notice, but he's... well, he's not getting any younger, and he's been remarkably patient these past weeks. hesitated. William Bailey had known about little Lucas for weeks now, but I'd managed to postpone the nevitable meeting, citing a variety of excuses that were growing increasingly thin. 'I don't know, Lucas. It's almost naptime, and he gets cranky when his schedule is disrupted." 'Please." The single word held a weight of emotion I couldn't ignore. "It would mean the world to him. To both of us." sighed, watching our son attempting to catch a butterfly with determined concentration. "Alright. Give us an nour to get ready." 'Thank you." The relief in his voice was palpable. "I'll pick you up at two." After hanging up, I turned to find my father watching me with undisguised interest. "The Bailey patriarch finally demanding an audience with his heir?" Chapter 31 Reading Walk "Something like that," I admitted. "Which means I have exactly fifty-seven minutes to make a toddler presentable for high society." My father chuckled. "Good luck with that." An hour later, little Lucas was as presentable as a fourteen-month-old could be-dressed in a navy sailor outfit that Isabelle had insisted on buying in Paris ("Every boy needs a proper French sailor suit, chérie!"), his wild curls somewhat tamed, his face scrubbed clean of the morning's adventures. Lucas arrived precisely on time, looking more nervous than I'd seen him since our first meeting at the mall. "You both look perfect," he said, taking in our son's outfit with obvious approval. "Grandfather will be thrilled." The drive to the Bailey Estate was quiet, little Lucas babbling happily in his car seat while Lucas and I maintained a careful silence broken only by occasional comments about traffic or the weather. As we approached the imposing gates, I felt my stomach twist with familiar anxiety-the same feeling I'd had every time I'd visited during our marriage, never quite belonging despite the Bailey name I'd temporarily carried. "Nervous?" Lucas asked, glancing at me as we drove up the long, winding driveway. "A little," I admitted. "It's been a long time." "Don't be. Grandfather has changed since his stroke. Less... intimidating." I raised an eyebrow. "William Bailey, not intimidating? I'll believe it when I see it." Lucas smiled. "Fair enough." The estate looked exactly as I remembered-manicured lawns, stately columns, windows gleaming in the afternoon sun. A monument to old money and established power, designed to impress and slightly intimidate visitors. As we pulled up to the front entrance, I saw a figure waiting at the top of the steps-William Bailey himself, eaning on his cane but standing tall, refusing the wheelchair his doctors had recommended. 'He came outside," Lucas murmured, surprise evident in his tone. "He never comes outside to greet anyone." unbuckled little Lucas from his car seat, straightening his outfit one last time before lifting him into my arms. "Ready to meet your great-grandfather, sweetie?" Lucas led the way up the steps, one hand lightly at the small of my back-a gesture of support I might have eaned into in other circumstances. "Grandfather," he said formally. "May I present Lucas William Shepherd." William Bailey's stern countenance transformed as his gaze fell on his great-grandson. The habitually rigid mouth softened, the sharp eyes warmed, and for a moment, I glimpsed the man he might have been without he weight of the Bailey legacy on his shoulders. 'Well now," he said, his voice gentler than I'd ever heard it. "Aren't you something?" Little Lucas, normally shy with strangers, studied the old man with solemn interest. Then, to my surprise, he eaned forward in my arms, reaching toward William with unmistakable curiosity. May I?" William asked, extending his arms. hesitated only briefly before transferring my son to his great-grandfather's embrace. William accepted the child with unexpected ease, balancing him securely despite the cane. Come inside," he said, already turning toward the door. "Margaret will want to see him too." As we followed William into the house, Lucas leaned close to whisper in my ear. "I've never seen him like this. Not with anyone." The next two hours passed in a surreal blur. William Bailey, the intimidating patriarch who had once terrified ne, sat on the floor of his formal living room playing peek-a-boo with my son. Margaret Bailey, normally so conscious of decorum, cooed and fussed over little Lucas like any besotted great-grandmother, producing oys and treats with Mary Poppins-like efficiency. He has the Bailey eyes," William declared at one point. "And that chin-pure Bailey determination right there." He has his mother's smile," Margaret countered, watching as little Lucas charmed the household staff with is toothy grin. "And her curiosity." sat quietly, sipping tea and observing this unexpected tableau-four generations of a family I had once been art of, now connected through my son in ways I couldn't have anticipated. He's perfect," William said later, as little Lucas began showing signs of fatigue. "You've done well, both of 'ou." The compliment, delivered with typical Bailey directness, caught me off guard. "Thank you," I murmured. You'll bring him again," William continued, not a question but an assumption. "Weekly, I think. Sunday fternoons would be ideal." glanced at Lucas, who raised an eyebrow, leaving the decision to me. "We'll see," I said diplomatically. "He's it an age where routine is important." Villiam nodded, his expression serious. "Then we'll make it routine. Every Sunday, tea with his great- Irandparents. Children need family, Autumn. As much family as they can get." he statement, simple yet loaded, hung in the air between us. Was it just about little Lucas? Or was William Bailey, in his own way, advocating for a reconciliation between Lucas and me? We should go," I said, noticing my son's drooping eyelids. "It's past his naptime." William reluctantly relinquished his great-grandson, pressing a kiss to the child's forehead with surprising enderness. "Until Sunday, then." n the car, little Lucas fell asleep almost immediately, exhausted from the excitement and attention. I watched is peaceful face in the rearview mirror, marveling at how effortlessly he had charmed the formidable Bailey Chapter 11 Rebonding Wan patriarch. "That went well," Lucas said as we drove back to my father's estate. "Better than I expected, honestly." "Your grandfather seems... different," I observed. "Softer." Lucas nodded. "The stroke changed him. Made him reassess his priorities. But I've never seen him like this- not even with me when I was a child." "There's something about babies," I said. "They bring out unexpected sides of people." "Like us?" Lucas asked quietly. I turned to look at him, finding his profile illuminated by the late afternoon sun-familiar yet somehow new, th man I'd married yet not the same man at all. "Maybe," I conceded. "Parenthood changes everything." He glanced at me, then back at the road. "Not everything. Some things were already there, just waiting to be recognized." The implication was clear. Lucas was talking about his feelings for me-feelings he claimed had existed before our son, before Paris, perhaps even before our divorce. "Lucas-" "You don't have to say anything," he interrupted gently. "I know you're not ready. I know you need time and space and proof that what I feel is real. I'm not pushing, Autumn. I'm just... here. Whenever you're ready to tal about it." The patience in his voice, the quiet certainty, was so different from the Lucas I'd married-the man driven by ambition and family obligation, who had seen me as a convenient arrangement rather than a partner. "I appreciate that," I said finally. "And I'm glad our son will know his father. The real relationship between us... that's something I'm still figuring out." Lucas nodded, accepting this non-answer with grace. "For what it's worth, I'm not the same man I was during our marriage. I've had a lot of time to think, to understand what went wrong, to recognize my own blindness." "People don't change that much," I said, unable to keep the skepticism from my voice. "Maybe not fundamentally," he agreed. "But they can grow. They can learn to see what was always there, righ in front of them." He was talking about me again-about how he claimed to have finally recognized feelings that had been buried beneath his fixation on Phoebe, beneath his family's expectations, beneath his own rigid self-image. Could it be true? Could the man who had married me for convenience, who had spent our entire marriage in love with someone else, truly have changed so completely? As we pulled up to my father's estate, Lucas turned to me, his expression serious. "I'm not asking for promises, Autumn. I'm not even asking for hope. All I'm asking for is the chance to show you who I've becom -not just as our son's father, but as the man who should have seen you clearly from the beginning." The sincerity in his voice, the earnestness in his eyes, made my carefully constructed defenses waver. For a moment-just a moment-I allowed myself to imagine the possibility that Lucas Bailey had truly changed, tha his feelings for me were genuine, that we might find our way to something real after all the pretense and pair But the moment passed, reality reasserting itself with the memory of too many disappointments, too many moments when I'd believed in something that proved to be illusion. "I should get him inside," I said, nodding toward our sleeping son. "He'll be cranky if he naps too long in the ca seat." Lucas nodded, accepting the deflection without protest. "Of course. I'll see you Tuesday for the doctor's appointment." As he helped me transfer little Lucas and his diaper bag, our hands brushed briefly-an accidental contact that nevertheless sent a jolt of awareness through me, a reminder of the physical connection that had always existed between us, even when everything else was complicated. "Thank you for today," Lucas said as I turned to leave. "For sharing him with my grandparents. It meant a lot to them. To me." 'He's your son too," I said simply. "He deserves to know all his family." Lucas smiled, a touch of sadness in his eyes. "And his parents? Do they deserve a second chance?" I didn't answer, couldn't answer, the question too loaded with possibilities I wasn't ready to consider. Instead, nodded a goodbye and carried our sleeping son into the house, away from the man whose patient determination was becoming increasingly difficult to resist. Inside, I found my father in his study, reviewing contracts but looking up expectantly as I entered. "How was the great Bailey summit?" "Surprisingly nice," I admitted, settling into a chair across from him. "William Bailey is absolutely smitten with his great-grandson." "Of course he is. The boy is his legacy." My father studied me over his reading glasses. "And how are things with the boy's father?" I sighed, leaning back in my chair. "Complicated." "Only because-" "-I'm making them complicated. Yes, I know. You've mentioned that." I rubbed my temples, a headache beginning to form. "But after everything, Dad, how am I supposed to just trust that he's changed? That his feelings are real?" Chapter 37 Rabundang Wet, My father removed his glasses, setting them carefully on his desk. "Do you know what the definition of insanity is? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results." "What's that supposed to mean?" "It means you've spent years building walls to protect yourself from Lucas Bailey. Years convincing yourself he could never truly love you, that you weren't enough. And now, when he's doing everything possible to prove otherwise, you're still clinging to those same walls." "Because they've kept me safe," I said defensively. "Have they?" My father raised an eyebrow. "Or have they just kept you lonely?" The question hit with uncomfortable accuracy, forcing me to confront the cost of the defenses I'd built-not just against Lucas, but against the possibility of genuine connection, of the vulnerability that came with truly being seen and known. "I don't know what to do," I admitted quietly. My father's expression softened. "Yes, you do. You're just afraid to do it." Perhaps he was right. Perhaps the real fear wasn't that Lucas hadn't changed, but that he had-that his feelings were genuine, that the connection between us was real, that there was a chance for something I'd wanted for so long but had convinced myself was impossible. And that possibility, with all its attendant risk and hope, was far more terrifying than the safety of my carefull constructed walls.