I don’t care about their trust funds. Dean said quietly. I had a right to know they existed. And what would you have done? Sloan challenged leaning forward. Fought me for custody. We live in two different universes, Dean. You dragging yourself into their lives now is just going to confuse them. They’re the ones who walked up to me.
They know something is connecting us. Sloan looked away, her jaw tight. They are incredibly observant. What are their names? She hesitated looking at his battered hands. Ruby, Hazel, Piper. Which one was in the middle? The one who spoke. Ruby. She’s the oldest by 4 minutes. She’s the protector. Dean nodded slowly.
He rubbed the scarred compass on his arm. He was looking across a vast chasm of wealth at a woman who held three of his children behind walls of money. So, Dean said, his voice ragged. What now? Sloan stood up walking back behind her massive walnut desk re-establishing the physical barrier. Now, she said her tone absolute.
You walk out that door. You go back to your life. And you pretend this never happened. Dean stared at her. He slowly stood up, his large frame uncoiling. The anger he had pushed down began to simmer again, hot and heavy. “You think it’s that easy?” he asked. “I can make it very easy.” Sloan replied, her gray eyes flat.
“Or I can make it incredibly difficult. Your choice.” Dean didn’t break eye contact. The worn splintered wood of his life was colliding with the cold, unbreakable glass of hers. And he knew with terrifying clarity that he wasn’t going to back down. For 3 days, the roar of the belt sander was the only thing keeping Dean from losing his mind.
His workshop smelled of sharp pine burnt friction and the sour tang of old wood glue. Dust coated every surface, settling into the creases of his knuckles and the deep lines framing his mouth. He was working on a shattered cherry wood credenza, systematically stripping away a century of grime to find the solid grain underneath.
It was a distraction. It wasn’t working. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw gray eyes and white patent leather shoes. He heard the cold deadpan threat in Sloan’s voice. “I can make it incredibly difficult.” Dean turned off the sander. The sudden silence in the garage was deafening, broken only by the rhythmic dripping of a leaky pipe in the corner.
He wiped a grease-stained rag across his forehead, leaning heavily against his workbench. He was outmatched. He knew it. If Sloan wanted to bury him in legal paperwork, she had a small army of retainers to do it. She could drain his non-existent savings in a week. But the thought of never seeing those three girls again, of letting them grow up thinking the man with the matching compass was just some ghost who didn’t care made his chest physically ache.
A heavy definitive crunch of tires on loose gravel pulled him from his thoughts. Dean looked up. A black heavily tinted SUV had just pulled into his narrow cracked driveway, dwarfing his rusted pickup truck. The engine cut out. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the rear door opened. Sloan stepped out into the overcast Friday afternoon.
She was dressed down, which for her meant a charcoal cashmere turtleneck and dark perfectly tailored trousers. She looked entirely alien in his driveway. She stepped carefully over a stray coil of copper wire. Her eyes scanning the peeling paints of the garage, siding the battered metal trash cans, the absolute lack of security.
She walked into the open bay of the workshop. The smell of the cashmere and subtle gardenia perfume clashed violently with the turpentine and sawdust. “You didn’t send a lawyer.” Dean noted tossing the dirty rag onto the bench. He didn’t offer her a chair. The only one available was missing a leg anyway. “Lawyers leave paper trails.
” Sloan said. Her voice was flat, but her eyes were darting around the shop taking in the chaotic reality of how he lived. She stopped when she saw a child’s drawing of a blue dog taped to the wall above the band saw. She reached into her sleek leather tote bag and pulled out a thick manila envelope. She dropped it on the workbench right on top of a pile of cherry wood shavings.
It landed with a heavy thudding finality. “What is this?” Dean asked, not moving toward it. “A solution.” Sloan said. “It’s a non-disclosure agreement, ironclad. You sign it stating you will never approach me, my company, or my daughters again. You will not claim paternity. You will not speak to the press.” Dean’s jaw tightened.
“And in exchange, inside the envelope is a cashier’s check.” She said, her gaze locking onto his. “Two million dollars drawn from a private account. It’s entirely untraceable. You can pay off whatever debts you have. You can move out of this place. You can set up a real life for your son.” The air left Dean’s lungs.
Two million. The number hit him like a physical blow. His mind instantly, traitorously ran the calculations. Toby’s dental surgery. The back taxes. The suffocating, endless anxiety that woke him up at 3:00 a.m. every single night gnawing at his stomach. He could buy a house with a yard. He could send Toby to college without a second thought.
All he had to do was erase himself. Sloan watched him. She saw the hesitation. She saw the heavy, exhausted slump of his shoulders. She knew the leverage she held and she was pressing it directly into his ribs. Dean looked at the envelope. He reached out his calloused, dust-covered fingers brushing the smooth paper. He thought of Toby.
