He turned on the cold water and splashed it over his face, gasping at the shock. He gripped the edges of the sink, staring out the small window into the dark alleyway. If he was the father, why had she never told him? He knew the answer before the question even fully formed. They hadn’t exchanged last names.
They had used burner phones. They had constructed a perfect isolated bubble of anonymity. She couldn’t have found him even if she wanted to. But she was Sloane Hastings. If she had really wanted to find a blue-collar woodworker from Oregon, a billionaire’s resources could have done it.
He walked back to the table and scrolled further down the article. It detailed her ruthless take over of her father’s failing shipping company, her aggressive expansion into autonomous supply chains, and her fiercely guarded private life. It mentioned she was a single mother to triplets. No mention of a father. No mention of a husband.
Dean clicked on an image gallery. He scrolled through photos of Sloane at galas and boardrooms, stepping out of helicopters. She looked like she was encased in armor. High-collared blouses, tailored blazers that cost more than Dean’s truck. Then he found it. A candid shot from a charity ball 3 years ago. She was wearing a backless evening gown, turning away from the camera in annoyance.
Right there on her left shoulder blade, the jagged lines of the broken compass. Dean closed the laptop with a sharp snap. He didn’t want this. He had built a fragile, quiet life for himself and Toby. They had a routine. They had stability, even if it was perched on the edge of a financial cliff. Injecting a billionaire CEO and three sudden daughters into the mix wasn’t just complicated.
It was a bomb waiting to detonate everything he had managed to salvage. He should walk away. He should delete his search history. Forget the gray eyes of the little girl in the park and go back to sanding down mahogany cabinets tomorrow morning. But the memory of the needle buzzing against his skin, the memory of her cynical, bruised laugh in that dark motel room gnawed at his ribs.
He was a father. He knew the bone-deep, terrifying responsibility of it. If those girls were his flesh and blood living in some glass tower with a woman who had walled herself off from the world, could he really just turn his back? He pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen was cracked spiderwebbing across the glass.
He opened his browser and searched for the corporate headquarters of Hastings Logistics. It was downtown. A 40-minute subway ride from his neighborhood. Dean set the phone down. He looked at his scarred forearm. He didn’t want money. He didn’t want a piece of her empire. But he needed to look her in the eyes.
He needed to know if the ghost in the ink was real. The Hastings Logistics building was a monolithic slab of black glass and steel that absorbed the weak Thursday morning sunlight. It loomed over the financial district, a physical manifestation of cold, silent power. Dean stood on the pavement outside, hyper-aware of his own skin.
He wore his best clothes, unripped dark denim, clean work boots, a heavy canvas jacket over a gray Henley. To him, it was a respectable uniform. In the shadow of the Hastings Tower, amidst a stream of executives in worsted wool and Italian leather, he looked like a trespasser. He smelled of cheap Irish Spring soap and the faint stubborn tang of turpentine that lived permanently under his fingernails.
He took a breath of city air, ozone, roasted nuts, cold concrete, and pushed through the revolving doors. The lobby was a cavern of polished white marble. Footsteps clicked sharply, echoing off the high ceilings. The climate control was aggressive, carrying a sterile, synthetic citrus scent. Dean approached the massive, curved reception desk.
The security guard, a man whose suit strained over massive shoulders, instantly zeroed in on Dean’s scuffed boots. “Can I help you?” the receptionist asked. She wore a sleek headset and a polite, dead-eyed smile. “I need to see Sloan Hastings,” Dean said. His voice, gravelly and low, scraped against the hushed acoustics of the room.
The receptionist’s smile didn’t waver. “Do you have an appointment, Mr.?” “Dean. And no. Just tell her Dean is here.” The security guard shifted his weight, closing the distance by a half step. “Ms. Hastings’ schedule is booked months in advance. We don’t do walk-ins.” “I’m not leaving,” Dean stated. He didn’t raise his voice, but his feet planted firmly on the marble.
The sudden dense stillness in his posture made the guard’s hand twitch toward a radio clipped to his belt. Dean ignored the guard and looked at the receptionist. Do you have a piece of paper and a pen? Reluctantly, she slid a branded notepad and a heavy metal pen across the counter. Dean’s handwriting was an ugly scrawl trained for marking measurements on rough lumber, not writing correspondence.
He wrote four words, “I have the compass.” He folded it and pushed it back. Send this up. If she tells you to throw me out after she reads it, I’ll walk out myself. No trouble. The receptionist exchanged a glance with the guard who gave a minute shrug. She scanned the note into a sleek desktop terminal typing a quick message.
