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Chapter 32
Atlas
Atlas’s leg bounced under the table of the conference room. He hadn’t been able to sleep the night before knowing he was going to face Jasmine today. The family lawyers were having low discussions with his parents. Oliver sat next to Christina, stone-faced. Christina leaned away, wearing the mask of indifference that so many in their social group had mastered. But even the makeup she wore couldn’t hide the dark circles under her eyes.
Knock. Knock.
His heart jumped. His stomach knotted and flipped.
“Come in,” his father instructed.
The door opened and a redheaded woman in a pants suit walked in, file in hand. Jasmine trailed behind, her head held high. The simple floral dress she wore hugged her figure. Her green eyes met his, her mouth parting. The tension in the room wound around him, pulling tighter, making it hard to breathe. She darted her gaze away, focusing on Oliver. Right. The whole reason we are even here. He’d been a fool to think she ever wanted him.
“Good morning. I’m Bridget Stevens. I’ll be acting as Jasmine Evans’s attorney.” Bridget motioned towards Jasmine before they took a seat.
“Andy Graham, Mike Fabricco, and Terry Buldoc. We’re the family lawyers for the Remingtons.” Andy introduced three of the ten lawyers their family employed for various needs.
Bridget scanned the room, looking between Atlas and his twin brother. “Which one of you is Oliver?”
“I am,” Oliver said.
The lawyers started the conversation, but their voices droned into the background. Atlas couldn’t take his eyes off Jasmine. She looked so small and alone. His family had hired sharks for lawyers, and hers appeared to be fresh out of law school. Jasmine sat straight, not glancing his way again. And it fucking tore him up inside. He knew he’d hurt her. But how could he ever make things right with so much unknown between them? She’d been with his brother. She’d lied to him. How could he trust her again? I lied to her too.
“I’d just like to know what you planned on getting out of blackmailing my son?” his mother asked bluntly.
Jasmine flinched. “I had no idea who your son was when I met him, so how could I be trying to blackmail him?”
“Oh, that’s right, you were just some floozy in a bar bathroom.” His mother dismissed her.
Atlas clenched his fists, his jaw ticcing.
“Excuse me—” Bridget started to say.
Jasmine sat forward. “I will not let you hold my past choices over my head. Not when Zoey’s father made the same decision as I did—only he was married. I’d say infidelity is far more immoral than a young woman choosing what she does with her own body. I regret nothing because I got my beautiful daughter from it.”
His heart lurched. He was proud of her for standing up for herself, but the truth of their union was a painful reminder that he had no place harboring any lingering feelings for her.
His mother’s face turned beet red. “Why, you little—”
“Stop!” his father interjected, annoyed. “What do you want to make this disappear?”
Jasmine swallowed, blinking rapidly. She stood up, pulling out several photos and sliding them on the table towards Oliver. “Zoey Jane Evans is your daughter’s name. I named her Zoey, meaning life, because as I grew her, she gave me a new life.” She pointed to the first image: a shot of Zoey proudly beaming next to a sandcastle covered in shells. “She’s three years old. She loves playing on the beach and with her cousins.” She motioned to the next. “Zoey is kind, and beautiful, and strong. She’s your daughter.”
Atlas’s eyes flicked over the photos. She gets her strength from you.
“We don’t need the dramatics or to have my son’s indiscretions flaunted in his pregnant wife’s face. Have some class.” His mother shoved the pictures away.
“She’s your daughter,” Jasmine pleaded with Oliver, who wouldn’t even look her in the eye.
“She’s a bastard!” Christina shouted, erupting into sobs.
Oliver put his arm around her.
Jasmine gathered the pictures together and sat back down, resignation steeling her features.
“Why should we care?” his mother asked coldly.
“Because she’s a part of your family,” Jasmine answered.
