Page 73 of The Expat Affair

“First of all, why would I do that? How does me leaving Thomas help you get his job?”

“It doesn’t. But it does ensure that my girls get everything.”

Fleur’s words that day at the funeral ring through my head, clear as a bell. We were standing in the parking lot, the girls eager to get back to their hockey practices and their lives. They wanted to know why they were required to attend the funeral of a man they barely knew.

Because you and your sister are next in line. The future faces of House of Prins. Because one day, this company will belong to the two of you...

When I pushed back, when I reminded Fleur it would also belong to Sem, she said of course it would, but her girls were older and would get there first. That was all she meant by it—or so she said. She was lying to me then, too.

“You wouldn’t be completely starting over, so you know. I’m notthatcruel.” With her free hand, she tugs a bag from her pocket, a velvet Prins pouch. She gives it a little shake, rattling the contents. “Fifty stones. Not anything like what Thomas has in the vault at home, of course, but all Prins quality, all of them loupe clean. According to today’s index, worth a half a million euros, give or take. That is, assuming you know where to sell them.”

I don’t miss the way the diamonds in the vault are Thomas’s, not mine.

“And you think Thomas would be okay with that? Sem is his son. I can’t just pick up and move to the other side of the world. He’d never allow it.”

“He would if he knew the truth.”

A chill shimmies up my spine, shooting a shiver across both shoulders. My gaze flashes to my son behind the glass. His iPad lies flat on the table, but his eyes are on me, watching the interaction between me and Fleur, and for once, I’m glad he has little interest in learning to read lips. I sign an order:Stay there.

Fleur steps closer, the steam from her mug rising in wispy puffs over her face. “Who is Sem’s father, Willow? Do you even know?”

Yes, of course I know. He’s a musician, a drummer and backup singer I met one night at Northside Tavern when Thomas and I were still in our early days. Sometimes, when Sem cries, I see Rocco’s expression as he leans into the microphone, screwing up that beautiful face in order to hit the high notes. That night at the Tavern, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

“Thomas,” I say, making sure to hold Fleur’s gaze. “Thomas is Sem’s father.”

“Not according to their DNA, he’s not.”

I always knew this was a possibility, but honestly, I thought those first, niggling doubts would come from Thomas. I figured Thomas would wonder where Sem’s hearing loss came from when more than fifty percent of cases in babies are genetic, or why Sem is left-handed when every Prins in history has used their right. I thought it would be Thomas who’d question all the differences between them, Sem’s cowlick that won’t obey no matter how much gel you slather on or his fat, stubby fingers when Thomas’s and mine are long and thin. If he was suspicious, he never said a word.

And look, it’s not like I actuallyknew. I didn’t know for sure who Sem’s father was, not until much, much later. By then, the drummer had moved on to some dive on the Florida panhandle, Thomas and I were married and living here, and Sem had held on for twenty-nine whole weeks. He was in neonatal intensive care at Amsterdam UMC, a purple and tiny wriggling thing under a warmer and attached to a heart monitor, and the spitting image of his father.

And at that point, what was I supposed to do? Say to Thomas,Oops, on second thought I guess he’s not yours? I couldn’t do that to him, but mostly, I couldn’t do that to Sem. Sem wasn’t out of the woods, not by a long shot, and my access to Dutch healthcare was dependent on my visa, and my visa was dependent on Thomas and the two of us sharing a home and a bed. If Thomas had tossed me out or worse, put me on the next westward-bound plane, it would have been a death sentence for Sem. I swallowed down the secret, and then pushed aside the nagging worries that Thomas would one day find out. I sacrificed my old life to exist in my new one—a life everyone wanted, but Semneeded. For Sem, being a Prins was life or death.

And no, it didn’t hurt that by then, I knew the kind of wealth Sem stood to inherit. My future has only been as secure as my marriage, but as a Prins, Sem would be set up for life. The best schools, the best lineage, the best medical care for the rest of his hopefully long days. No way in hell I was walking away from all that.

Regardless, Dutch law is very clear. If Fleur shares the DNA results with Thomas and he discovers I’ve willfully deceived him, he can petition the court to revoke his fatherhood, and retroactively from the moment Sem was born. Thomas would no longer be Sem’s father. Sem would lose his Dutch passport, his family, every single Prins privilege.

Maybe Fleur is bluffing. Maybe she doesn’t have the DNA results in her back pocket, but the bigger question is, what will Thomas do? Would he hate me enough for the deception to walk away from Sem?

Thomas, who is too busy making love to Cécile to eat dinner with us or tuck his son into bed. Who wishes he was coming home to her instead of us. Before Cécile, I would have said no, Thomas wouldneverturn his back on Sem, but Cécile has thrown a wrench into things. My gaze wanders to my son, to his misbehaving hair and those pudgy fingers I fear will never lengthen, and the truth is, I just don’t know.

I push off the wall, my gaze returning to Fleur. “Okay, I’m listening.”

Rayna

My cellphone rings one last time in Lars’s hand, then flips Willow’s call to voicemail.

“What’s the code?” Lars says, and he doesn’t have to ask me twice. His other hand is still holding the gun, and he’s aiming it at my face.

“0-2-1-9-8-8.” My birth month and year, programmed in my new phone. Old habits die hard, I guess.

He ticks it in and the lock screen dissolves. “Call her back.”

“And say what?”

“I don’t know. See what she wants.”

“Probably just to talk. Willow is a friend.”

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