Page 77 of The Decoy

The front door opens before I even reach the top step.

Molly Renwick stands in the grand marble entryway dressed in a soft silk blouse and trousers. I expect the smile lighting up her face. “Brody! Look at you making wonderful time through the tunnel. Come in, come in!”

I step into the warm, quiet luxury of the foyer and lean down to give her a polite, warm side hug. “Thanks for seeing me on short notice.”

“Nonsense,” she says, shutting the heavy door behind me and taking my coat. She looks up at me, her dark eyes sparkling with subtle, irrepressible excitement that catches me off guard. She pats my arm, conspiratorially, leaning in close. “Charles is in the study, but I must say, when you called sounding so formal, so urgent, well, let's just say, a mother knows.”

I raise my brow. “A mother knows what?”

“Oh, don’t play coy with me, Brody Vaughan,” Molly’s practically beaming as she smooths her hands down her pants. “You’re a traditional boy, coming to the house unannounced, asking to speak with both parents immediately. I know ‘I'm looking for a father’s blessing’ when I see one. I told Charles to sit down and pour a drink because our future son-in-law is coming to make things official.”

Fuck. A tight, low breath escapes my nose. Before I can gently correct her misunderstanding, a heavy pocket door at the end of the grand hallway slides open.

Charles steps out into the hall, a tumbler of amber liquid held firmly in his right hand. He still wears his work suit, though his jacket is draped over an armchair behind him and his tie is loosened just an inch at his collar. His silver hair is still immaculate, but his sharp face is set in a hard, unforgiving line as his dark eyes lock onto mine.

“Molly,” Charles says, his voice deep and gravely. “Leave us for a moment.”

“Oh, Charles, that’s not going to happen, dear.” Molly turns toward him with a wave of her hand. “He just got here, and Ellis is on her way up the steps right now. I just heard her car pull up.”

The heavy front door chimes a second later, and Ellis walks in.

She looks breathtaking, even at eight months pregnant. She carries herself with an undeniable, effortless authority of a queen walking into her own court. Her eyes sweep the hallway, immediately finding mine and the silent, unshakable trust that passes between us, and that single glance is enough to ground the entire room.

I step back, meeting her halfway, taking her handbag with one hand and resting my other hand against the small of her back as she steps next to me.

“You okay?” I murmur in her ear, feeling the heavy warmth of her body against mine.

“I’m fine,” she says back, her hand resting over mine on her waist. “Let’s do this.”

“Shall we move this into the study?” Charles asks, but it’s more like a command, and turns his back on us and straight into the expansive, wood-paneled room lined with gold-leafed paintings and towering bookshelves.

We follow him in, Molly stepping behind us, her eyes darting between Charles’s severe posture and the cool united front Ellis and I present. The playful expectation on her face flickers, replaced by a sharp maternal awareness that the air in the room is thick with tension.

Charles takes a seat in a large wingback chair, setting his glass down on the table beside it with a heavy click. He doesn’t offer us a seat. He sits back, crossing his legs, looking at me like I’m a hostile witness on a cross-examination stand.

“I assume,” Charles begins, his tone dripping with ice, “that my daughter informed you of our discussion this afternoon, and I assume you’re here to offer input on how I intend to handle Dylan Boone.”

I don’t sit down. I stand squarely in the center of the room, my feet shoulder-width apart. My height and broad frame dominate the space between us, Ellis standing right beside me, her arm lightly brushing against mine, our fingers laced.

“I’m not here to offer input, Charles,” I say, my voice cool, calm, and unyielding. “I’m here to tell you that you’re not taking legal action against Dylan Boone. You aren’t filing a paternity suit, you aren’t dragging his name into a courtroom, and you’re not leaking a single word of this to the press.”

Charles’s eyebrows shoot up, a dark, dangerous sneer pulling at his mouth. “Excuse me? You’re standing in my house telling me how I’m permitted to protect my daughter and my family.”

“He’s telling you,” Ellis cuts in, her tone precise. “Because this isn’t your battle to fight, Dad. Brody and I are building a life together. We’re raising this child together. Dragging Dylan into a legal circus does nothing for my son. Nothing for our family and nothing for my relationship with Brody. It serves only one thing: your personal pride.”

“Pride?” Charles says, slamming his hand onto the arm of his chair. He leans forward, his face flushing crimson. “That arrogant little bastard got you pregnant, hid behind his career, and insulted you on a public set. Our company’s set. He treated a Renwick like an inconvenient mistake. I’ve spent thirty years ensuring that anyone who touches this family or harms my children in any way pays a price they can’t afford. You expect me to sit back and let him walk away without consequences because you want to allow Brody to stand in as some kind of decoy father to shoulder responsibility for another man’s child?”

Molly gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes widening as the reality of the situation finally slams into her. “Charles. What are you saying about Dylan Boone?”

Neither Charles nor Ellis looks at her.

“I’m not a decoy,” I say softly, my voice cutting through Charles’s anger like a blade.

Charles narrows his eyes at me. “What?”

“I said I’m not a decoy father,” I repeat, stepping a half inch forward, drawing all of Charles' focus entirely on me. “I am that baby boy’s father. I was there when Ellis heard his heartbeat for the first time, I was there when he kicked for the first time, I built his crib, and I will be the man holding her hand in the delivery room when he takes his first breath. Dylan Boone provided half a strand of DNA. “That doesn’t make him a father. It makes him a donor who wasn’t man enough to stay.”

Charles leans back, letting out a harsh breath. “You speak very romantic words, Brody, truly. It's a wonderful narrative, but let’s look at the actual reality here. Boone plays in the NHL and has an eighty-two-game season with constant multi-city road trips and endless travel. He wouldn’t even be in the same zip code for half of this child’s life. You play seventeen games a year, half of them at home, which is much better for stability, but why would you step into this gap? Why take on the emotional weight of another man’s child when you don’t have to?”