The Consequences of That Night (At His Service #6)(22)

Seeing the two of them together, Emma’s heart twisted.

“You named him Sam?” he asked a moment later.

“After my dad.”

“He looks just like me,” Cesare muttered. Pulling away from the baby, he rose to his feet. “Just tell me one thing. If I hadn’t come to Paris, if I hadn’t seen you today—would you ever have told me?”

She swallowed.

“You really are unbelievable,” he ground out.

“You don’t want a family.” Her voice trembled. “All you could have given him was money.”

“And a name,” he flung out.

“He already has both.” She looked at him steadily. “I’ve given him a name—Samuel Hayes. And I earn enough money. Not for mansions and private jets, but enough for a comfortable home. We don’t need you. We don’t want you.”

Cesare ground his teeth. “You’re depriving him of his birthright.”

She snorted. “Birthright? You mean you’d have insisted on sending him to a fancy school and buying him something extravagant and useless at Christmas, like a pony, before you ignored him the rest of the year?” She shook her head. “And that’s the best-case scenario! Because let’s not pretend you actually want to be in the picture!”

“I might...” he protested.

“Oh, please.” Her eyes narrowed. “All you could have offered was money and heartbreak. Better no father at all than a father like you. My child will never feel like an ignored, unwanted burden.” She straightened her shoulders, lifting her chin. “And neither will I.”

Cesare stared at her. Then his mouth snapped shut.

“So that’s what you think of me,” he muttered. “That I’m a selfish bastard with nothing but money to offer.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then relented with a sigh. “You are who you are. I realized last year that I could not change you. So I’m not going to try.”

His handsome face looked suddenly haggard. In spite of everything, her traitorous heart went out to him. Living with him for seven years, learning his every habit, she’d seen glimpses of the vulnerability that drove Cesare to a relentless pursuit of money and women he neither needed nor truly wanted. When he came home late at night, when he paced the hallways in sleepless hours, she’d seen flashes of emptiness beneath his mask, and the despair beneath his careless charm. There could never be enough money or cheap affairs to fill the emptiness in his heart, but he kept trying. And Emma knew why.

He’d lost the woman he’d loved, and he’d never be able to love anyone again.

Even through her anger, she felt almost sorry for him. Because without love, what could there be—but emptiness?

“It’s not your fault,” she said slowly. “I understand why you can’t let anyone into your heart again. You loved her so much—and then you lost her...” At his expression, she reached her hand to his rough cheek. Her voice trembled as she whispered, “Your heart was buried with your wife.”

Cesare seemed to shudder beneath her touch. “Emma...”

“It’s all right.” Dropping her hand, she stepped back and tried to smile. “We’re fine. Truly. Your son is happy and well. I have a good job. My boss is a very kindhearted man. He looks out for us.”

Something in her voice made him look up sharply.

“Who is he? This new boss?”

She licked her lips. “You don’t know?”

He shook his head. “After you left, I tried my best to forget you ever existed.”

It shouldn’t have hurt her, but it did. Emma put her hands on the handlebar of the stroller. “That is what you should do now, Cesare. Forget us....”

But he grabbed the handlebar, his hand over hers. “No. This time, I’m not letting you go. Not with my son.”

She swallowed, looking up at his fierce gaze.

“You only want us because you think you can’t have us. No is a novelty, it’s distracting and shiny. But I know, if I ever let myself...count on you, you’d leave. I won’t let anyone hurt Sam. Not even you.”

She tried to pull away. He tightened his grip.

“He’s my son.”

“Let us go,” she whispered. “Please. Somewhere, there’s a man who will love us with all his heart. A man who can actually be a loving father to Sam.” She shook her head. “We both know you’re not that man.”

The anger in Cesare’s face slid away, replaced by an expression that seemed hurt, even bewildered.

“Emma,” he breathed. “You think so little of me—”

“You heard her,” a man growled behind them. “Let her go, damn you.”

Alain Bouchard stood behind them with two bodyguards.

Cesare’s eyes widened in shock. “Bouchard...?”

Alain was a powerful man, handsome in his way. In his mid-forties, he was a decade older than Cesare. His salt-and-pepper hair was closely clipped, his clothing well-tailored. His perfect posture bespoke the pride of a man who was CEO of a luxury goods firm that had been run by the Bouchard family for generations. But the red hatred in the Frenchman’s eyes was for Cesare alone.

“Let her go,” Alain repeated, and Emma saw his two burly bodyguards, Gustave and Marcel, take a step forward in clear but unspoken threat.