Page 17 of Finally Found You

“Take a deep breath, Cam,” JJ instructs gently. “You’re stronger than you think. We’ll figure this out together, okay?”

“Okay,” I reply, trying to steady my voice. “Thanks, JJ. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I’m always here for you,” she reassures me. “Now, go cook that seafood pasta. In the meantime, I’ll speak to Aunt Claire. She’ll come up with something to help you win this case.”

“Sounds good,” I agree, forcing a small smile.

We say our goodbyes, and I hang up, feeling slightly lighter. I know I still have a fight ahead of me, but I feel more prepared to face it.

As I begin to prepare the pasta, I can’t help but think about Lysander again. I wonder if there’s any possibility of finding common ground, a way for us to coexist in Kenzy’s life without tearing each other apart. After all, she’s what matters the most, and she deserves a stable, loving environment.

The scent of garlic and onions sautéing in the pan fills the air, and I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of “Uptown Funk” while cooking. It’s comforting, and for a moment, I can forget about the storm brewing in my life.

Chapter Nine

Lysander

I stand on the rooftop of the Pacific Heights building where I live. The sun casts a golden glow over the cityscape. It’s an unseasonably sunny day in San Francisco, one that would normally fill me with a sense of contentment—but not today. The majestic Golden Gate Bridge stretches across the horizon, its vibrant red hue a stark contrast to the azure sky.

A cool breeze ruffles my hair as I grip the phone, my knuckles turning white from the force of it. The weight of the news is still settling in my chest, like a leaden anchor dragging me down into an abyss of emotion.

Things are finally sinking in. I have a daughter.

A fifteen-year-old daughter who wants me to sign her freedom and forget about me.

Someone stole those fifteen years from me—and how am I supposed to recover any of the lost time when she wants to go?

Gatsby’s voice comes through the phone, calm and collected as always. “Lysander, you need to approach this carefully. You can’t just barge in and claim Kenzy. She’s fifteen, and she has a choice in this.” His words are measured and wise, reassuring me that he has my back.

“He’s right,” Aslan chimes in, his tone more cautious, reflecting the uncertainty of the situation. “You heard from the guys in our legal department. They’re no experts, but you haven’t been part of her life, and she’s old enough to choose a guardian. You need to get to know her and her cousin first. Convince them you’re willing to work things out.”

I take a deep breath, staring at the bridge as if it holds the answers to my sudden, overwhelming situation. My heart clenches with a potent mix of anger, fear, and longing. I hate to admit that they’re right. “I don’t want to scare her off, especially since I’ve just found out about her existence.”

“Lysander, I know this is a lot to process”—Gatsby’s voice softens, the concern evident in his tone—“but I trust that you’ll do the right thing. Remember, we’re here for you. Don’t forget, she’s been living her whole life without you, too. This is going to be just as much of a shock for her as it is for you.”

I nod, even though neither of them can see me. “Are you sure you can keep an eye on the vineyard while I’m here?”

“Of course,” Gatz responds, calm and supportive. “We’re all here for you. Are we telling the young ones what’s happening?”

“Nope,” I say immediately. The thought of involving our younger siblings in this mess unsettles me. “Until I have an idea of how things will work, I prefer not to tell them anything. As soon as you get the referral for the family lawyer in Colorado, call me, Aslan. I want to make sure she won’t end up in foster care.”

“I’m on it,” he assures me. “Focus on getting to know your daughter, and convince the cousin Kenzy will be in good hands.”

I sigh, but before I can say anything, Aslan continues, “By the way, did you fuck her?”

I take a step back, my heart hammering in my chest. “Huh?” is the only word I can muster.

“When she saw me, she seemed… surprised, flustered, or—I’m not sure how to describe her reaction. She almost flushed and… what did you do?” he inquires, his voice laced with suspicion.

I clear my throat, heat rising to my cheeks.

“Fuck,” Gatsby says before I do. “Seriously, you slept with the cousin?”

“What is she, twenty?” Aslan asks judgmentally.

“We met last night. I kissed her, and it didn’t go that far.” My words come out fast, one stumbling over the next. “She’s twenty-seven.”

“You’re almost forty,” Aslan reminds me, like I don’t know how old we are.

---