Page 7 of Silver Fox's Secret Triplets
"Bill." Her voice carried a warning. "That's enough."
"She needs to tell us the truth, Barbara. We have a right to know."
My mother moved past him to stand beside me, her hand settling gently on my arm. The touch was warm and reassuring, a reminder that not everyone in this family communicated through demands and ultimatums.
"Sweetheart," she said quietly, "was it someone you loved?"
The question was asked without judgment, without the aggressive edge that had characterized my father's interrogation. It was the voice of a mother trying to understand her daughter's choices, trying to bridge the gap that three years of silence had created between us.
I looked into her eyes—blue where mine were hazel, kind where my father's were calculating—and felt the familiar ache of guilt that had followed me to Maine and back again. She deserved better than the daughter who had disappeared in the middle of the night, leaving only a note saying she needed time to figure things out.
But love? Had I loved Duncan when I crawled into his bed that night, desperate and reckless and convinced that I could handle the consequences? Had I loved him when I discovered I was pregnant and chose to disappear rather than face the destruction that honesty would bring?
"It doesn't matter," I said.
The disappointment in her expression was worse than my father's anger. She had hoped for connection, for understanding, for some explanation that would make sense of the choices I had made. Instead, I was giving her the same wall of silence I had perfected over the past three years.
I picked up my purse and keys, moving toward the kitchen door before either of them could continue the interrogation. My father called my name, his voice sharp with command, but I didn't turn around. Some conversations could only end with someone walking away, and I had learned that lesson long before I left Boston.
The drive across the city took longer than expected, traffic thick with morning commuters and construction delays. I sat behind the wheel of my minivan, fingers gripping the steering wheel as I replayed the confrontation with my parents. The questions would continue—today, tomorrow, every day until I either gave them the answers they wanted or found a way to deflect them permanently.
The address led me to a sleek office building in the financial district, its glass facade reflecting the gray October sky. I had worked in similar buildings during college internships, navigating the maze of corporate hierarchies and professional expectations that came with my father's world. The familiarity should have been comforting, but instead it felt suffocating.
I parked in the visitor section of the underground garage and took the elevator to the lobby. The receptionist, a woman in her fifties with perfectly styled silver hair and a warm smile, checked her computer when I gave my name.
"Walsh Strategic," she said, handing me a visitor's badge. "Fifteenth floor. Take the elevator bank on your right."
Walsh Strategic. The name meant nothing to me—though it did make my skin prickle. I had accepted the position without bothering to research the company, focused only on the immediate need for employment. As the elevator climbed toward the thirty-second floor, I tried to remember if my father had ever mentioned the name in his business conversations but came up empty.
The doors opened to reveal a reception area decorated in subtle grays and blues, expensive but understated. A young woman with dark hair and a professional smile approached me immediately.
"Ms. Whitmore? I'm Jennifer, Mr. Walsh's strategy lead. Thank you for coming in on such short notice."
Walsh. The name finally registered, sending a chill through my chest that had nothing to do with the building's air conditioning. I followed Jennifer through a maze of cubicles and office doors, my mind racing as I tried to convince myself that it was a coincidence, that there were probably dozens of Walshes in Boston's business community.
But deep down, I already knew. The sick feeling in my stomach, the way my hands had started to shake—my body was recognizing what my mind was still trying to deny.
Jennifer stopped at a door marked with a brass nameplate that readDuncan Walsh, CEO. She knocked twice, then opened the door without waiting for a response.
"Mr. Walsh? Ms. Whitmore is here for the interview."
She gestured for me to step inside and quietly shut the door behind me.
Duncan stood near the window, his back to the door, his tall frame silhouetted against the Boston skyline. He wore a charcoal suit that was clearly tailored, his dark hair showing more silver than I remembered. When he turned at the sound of my entrance, our eyes met across the expanse of his office.
Time stopped. The carefully constructed walls I had built around the memory of him crumbled in an instant, leaving me exposed and vulnerable in ways I had forgotten were possible. His blue eyes were exactly as I remembered—sharp, intelligent, and now filled with a recognition that matched my own shock.
My breath caught in my throat. My spine stiffened. For a moment that felt eternal, neither of us moved at all.
4
DUNCAN
Ihad the entire weekend to prepare for this moment, and I wasted every minute of it.
The words I rehearsed dissolved the second Ivy stepped through my office door Monday morning. Her name had been on my lips for forty-eight hours, turning over in my mind while I paced my empty penthouse and stared out at the harbor. I told myself I would be professional and controlled. That I would treat her the same way I treated every other temporary assistant who walked through that door.
The lie crumbled when I saw her face.
