Central Park throbbed under the hottest summer that Alex and Sophie could remember as they walked together after leaving Sean Duvall's office.
The old trees, lush and deeply green, cast sparse shadows on the ground, over which cyclists sped by in noisy packs. Farther ahead, a group of teenagers cut across the lawn, laughter unrestrained, the air saturated with sweet perfumes, squashed fruit, ice cream melting in children's hands.
Alex wore a light shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled up, that casual precision of someone who always knows exactly where he's stepping; Sophie, still a little stiff with nerves, feeling her dress cling to her back, sweat collecting under hair hastily pinned up.
They walked slowly, weaving between skaters and restless dogs, while Alex began talking to Sophie about Sean, maybe hoping to ease her nerves about his flexible morals.
"You probably figured it out, but Sean's hated Veronica since we were teenagers. And it's not just her personality… There's a whole story behind it. Want to hear it?"
Sophie nodded, and the two drifted to a bench beneath a tree where the lake glittered in the distance.
"Sean has a sister, Norah—he's always been close to her. Norah was Veronica's best friend and had been my girlfriend for years. Our families expected us to get married, you know, those old-money, tradition-bound things." Alex rolled his eyes, playing up the drama.
"And then?" Sophie pressed.
"Well, right when we were supposed to get engaged, Veronica started a rumor—said Norah was cheating on me. And I…" Alex paused, rubbing his forehead as if trying to erase an old scar, "I believed it. I broke up with Norah, pushed her out of my life. Years later, I found out it was a lie, I'd been played for a fool. By then Norah was married, far away, and I… lost them both. Sean never forgave Veronica, and now he treats me with open hostility."
Sophie listened, feeling the heat of her own doubts. She bit her lip, uncertain.
"Don't you think you're making Veronica the villain because you need someone to blame?" she said, her voice low, almost to herself. "Everyone has their sides, Alex. Even you."
Alex turned to her, his face sliced with sunlight, eyelids narrowed. He gave a tired smile.
"I'll let you meet Veronica and draw your own conclusions. In fact, you'll get the chance soon. This Saturday, she's throwing a charity event at the house, and you'll be introduced as my daughter from another relationship!"
Sophie felt a dizzy wave, like the city was spinning around her and she was onstage, lights in her face, lines she'd only just memorized.
"I'll… I'll try. But we really need to work out the details of your paternity story before then!"
They began walking back, Alex already rehearsing the cover story, his voice persuasive, eyes attentive to every detail of the charade.
"Your mother was my secretary. We had a discreet affair while I was married to Veronica. She left town, died young, and I only discovered you existed now, as an adult, some lawyer in upstate New York found the paperwork. Nothing impossible."
Sophie shook her head.
"But they'll ask my maiden name, where I went to school, who the doctor was… There are a lot of loose ends."
Alex laughed, and for the first time, Sophie noticed how the tension in his shoulders seemed to melt away in the summer heat.
"So let's polish the fiction. You need a new name. No Sophie Carter—that's your real name. How about something more artistic? A pseudonym?"
"Miranda Grant?" Sophie suggested with a theatrical air, and they both laughed.
"No, that one's too soap opera, I don't know why," Alex replied, and they started tossing names back and forth: Evelyn, Hope, until Sophie spotted a flower vendor pushing his cart and said,
"Flora Sanders! Flora as in 'flower,' and Sanders, like sand… always slipping through your fingers."
Alex repeated it slowly, savoring the sound.
"Flora Sanders… Perfect. Flora Sanders, daughter of Alex Grant, born in Central Park for the society of spectacle!"
They began to laugh at the absurdity, sharing that strange pact—like children plotting mischief under the shadow of grown-ups.
The following days ran humid and feverish—hospitals, the smell of clean sheets and reheated soup. Lucas came home from his hospital stay with a tiredness in his eyes but was already asking for crackers, already smiling at Lily and that was enough.
Emily juggled shifts and phone calls, fighting to get her "son" into a clinical research trial at the hospital, a hope that might never come. Brian, exhausted, left for yet another cruise assignment, leaving Sophie balancing guilt for her secrets and the relief of being able to cry alone in the kitchen, late at night, when the world was finally quiet.
Though she had her own place in Harlem, she practically lived at her sister's apartment, always with the excuse of keeping Emily company while Brian worked, but the truth was she wanted to stay close to Lucas.
On Saturday, Alex Grant's driver arrived early at Emily's building—dark uniform, perfectly practiced smile. Sophie slipped into the car, trying to make herself small, knees together, clutching her small purse, nails slick with sweat. The car sped down avenues and highways, the reality Sophie was used to receding further and further behind.
The Grant mansion was a fever dream of classical architecture: white columns, soaring windows, gardens edged like razors, exuberant flowers and glittering gravel paths. The scent of fresh-cut grass mingled with expensive perfume and the subtle salt of the ocean. Sophie stepped out, her light dress clinging to her skin, the sun kissing her shoulders with generosity.
Alex was waiting at the door, blue shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, linen trousers, hair tamed by the breeze and a smile that said he'd rehearsed this entrance. He looked beautiful — Sophie couldn't help but notice — which was ironic, because from that door onward, Alex would be her father. He stepped up, lowered his voice just for her,
"Ready, Flora?"
Sophie laughed at the mention of her "daughter name," but her heart was pounding against her ribs. She blinked, trying to remember the college girl who'd once stepped onstage for her first performance.
"Never been so ready," she lied, because she had to.
Alex took her arm, and together they crossed the garden, past round tables set with drinks, fruit, and restrained laughter. The charity guests were gathered in little circles—sunglasses, light clothing, shiny cell phones in hand—congregating around the backyard's immense pool.
Still arm in arm, Alex led Sophie through the house to a terrace overlooking the gardens. From above, he lifted a crystal glass and gently tapped it with a fork. The clear note floated through the air like a summons. Conversations died, faces turned with anticipation.
"Friends," Alex began, his deep voice filling the silence with ancient authority, "today, in addition to celebrating a cause organized by someone as noble as my beloved wife, I have a surprise for all of you! I'd like to introduce someone very special—a surprise even for me: Flora Sanders, my daughter from another relationship, whom I've only just met. I hope you'll welcome Flora as warmly as I did."
Sophie smiled. And in that smile, she knew she was at the mercy of her audience; as an actress, yes, but also as a woman who knows she is being watched, tested, judged. She walked to Alex, accepting the role of illegitimate daughter with the dignity that only the truly forsaken possess.
Eyes widened, glasses suspended halfway, voices murmured rumors in every language and accent. The guests, all so golden in the sun, seemed statues of salt, petrified in the instant of scandal.
And then Sophie saw, among the well-dressed women and men with their practiced smiles, a striking blonde woman with wide, tense eyes: Veronica Grant, the hostess, her face frozen in shock. Beside her, Daniel. The same Daniel, with that old, knowing look, keeper of another secret, and the father of Sophie's child.