Page 70 of Silver Fox's Secret Triplets
His jaw tightened and I noticed anger under the surface, but he stepped aside to let me in. The house was quiet—Barbara must have been resting still. I assumed he opted for quiet and peace over confrontation. I followed him inside and shut the door behind us.
We sat in his study, the same room where we'd celebrated successful deals and planned expansion strategies. The distance between us felt wider than the few feet of carpet that separated our chairs.
"You want to talk about the children?" Bill's voice was cold. "Fine. Let's talk about how you robbed me of almost four yearswith them. How you let my daughter disappear without a word while you went on with your life."
"I didn't know?—"
"You didn't want to know. There's a difference."
I absorbed the blow because he was right. I could have called. Could have checked on her. Could have done a hundred things differently.
"You're right," I said. "I failed her. I failed you. But punishing her now won't change what happened."
"I'm not punishing her."
"You threw her out of your house. You won't speak to her. If that's not punishment, what is it?" I was seething but I maintained my composure. Him taking his anger out on Ivy because of what I did was not okay, and I wouldn't let it continue.
Bill stood and walked to the window, his back to me. "You have no idea what it's been like. Finding out about the children, realizing she's been struggling alone all this time. And then discovering it was you—my friend, the man I trusted—who was responsible."
"I want to make it right."
"How? By swooping in now and playing father? By offering her a place to stay out of guilt?"
"Not guilt. Love."
The word carved a chasm between us and Bill turned from the window with anger in his eyes. But there was a sadness there too, something so deep I knew it didn’t just stem from this argument. He was blaming himself for letting her down too.
"Love," he repeated. "That's what you call it?"
"Yes."
"And what about when you got her pregnant? Was that love too?"
I met his gaze steadily. "I don't know what it was four years ago. I was confused, scared, coming off the worst period of my life—with Meranda." I paused and took a breath. I wasn't going to bring my past into this as some excuse. "But I know what it is now."
"And you think that's enough? You think you can just decide to love her and everything will be fine?" Bill's bottom lip trembled but he wasn't backing down.
"I think she deserves better than what I gave her before. I think those children deserve a father who's present, not one who runs away when things get complicated." I wanted to stand up to him, put him in his place, but I was conscious of Barbara and her recovery. I held my tongue.
"You forfeited your say the moment you touched her."
"Maybe. But I'm not asking for your permission. I'm asking you to stop punishing her for choices she made when she was scared and alone."
Bill's face flushed. "You have no right?—"
"Stop." Barbara's voice cut through the tension. She stood in the doorway, fully dressed but pale. "Both of you, stop."
We turned to her, and I saw the exhaustion in her eyes, the toll that all of this was taking on her.
"We've all suffered enough," she said quietly. "Bill, she's our daughter. Our only child. I won't lose her again because of your pride."
"Barbara—"
"No." She moved into the room but she didn't move toward him. "I won't watch you drive her away. I won't watch my grandchildren grow up thinking their grandfather doesn't love them."
Bill stared at his wife, conflict written across his face. "You can't just forgive him."
"I'm not talking about forgiveness. I'm talking about family. About what we all need to heal."
