Chapter 2 - Inside the Smoke-Glass Room
The private compartment smelled of warm formula, sterile wipes, and the distinct, sour metallic tang of panicked human sweat.
Up close, Roman Vale looked even more exhausted than he had from the aisle. Shadows bruised the skin beneath his dark eyes, and the cuffs of his shirt were damp where one of the infants had spat up an hour earlier. The bodyguard, who introduced himself with a terse nod as Marcus, stood rigidly by the sliding glass door, his hand resting near his hip in a way that made my pulse spike.
"Sit," Roman said, his voice deep, gravelly, and stripped of all the boardroom polish the financial pages attributed to him. He gestured to a leather armchair opposite the triple stroller.
I didn't sit immediately. Instead, my eyes locked on the three babies. They were impossibly small, wrapped in pale blue receiving blankets. Jude, the one Roman had been holding, was barely the size of a five-pound bag of flour. The other two, sleeping fitfully or whimpering in their seats, were equally fragile. Premature, clear. Born into a world of wealth they couldn't comprehend, yet screaming with the same primal desperation as any starving child in a housing project.
"What are their names?" I asked, my voice softening instinctively as I stepped closer.
"Jude," Roman said, shifting the frail baby slightly against his chest. "In the middle is Leo. And the one by the window is Silas."
I swallowed hard. "Silas? Like Silas Kincaid?"
Roman's jaw tightened, a hard line cutting across his stubbled cheek. "No. Silas is named after my grandfather. Kincaid is a vulture who thinks he can pick over my family while my sons are in a neonatal ICU."
Marcus shifted uncomfortably by the door. "Mr. Vale, we shouldn't discuss—"
"Quiet, Marcus," Roman snapped without raising his voice. He looked back at me, his gaze piercing. "You know my name. You know Kincaid's name. You're not just some random passenger from coach, are you?"
"Coach?" I let out a dry, humorless laugh, looking down at my faded denim jacket. "Look at me, Mr. Vale. I couldn't afford a ticket to coach if it didn't come with a heavy discount and a prayer. I bought a standard regional ticket, and when the conductor punched it, he must have felt sorry for me or made a mistake, because he redirected me up here when the back cars were overflowing."
Roman studied my face, searching for deception. What he found was just a tired twenty-four-year-old mother whose breasts were already aching with the familiar, heavy throb of milk coming in. Lila was six hours away, but a mother's body doesn't check train schedules or miles.
"You have a child," Roman stated. It wasn't a question.
"A daughter. Lila. She's seven months old." I unzipped my jacket, letting it pool around my waist as I finally took the seat across from him. "Her father cleared out our apartment account the week she was born and left for Austin with a woman who sells essential oils. My sister watches her while I work two jobs and trying to find a way to keep our electricity from getting cut off on Friday."
The silence in the compartment became heavy, suffocating.
Roman looked down at Jude, who gave a pathetic, shuddering squeak, trying to suck on his own tiny fist. The sight of it bypassed every logical defense mechanism I possessed.
"If you're worried about diseases," I said, my voice dropping defensively, "I can tell you right now my blood is cleaner than half the executives you do business with. I don't touch anything stronger than decaf coffee, and I haven't slept a full night since November."
Roman didn't smile, but a strange, softening shadow passed over his rugged features. He carefully, gingerly, transferred Jude into my arms.
The baby was feather-light. His skin felt hot, dry, and paper-thin against my palms. When he brushed his cheek against my forearm, hunting blindly for something to latch onto, a hot rush of emotion slammed into my chest, bringing tears pricking to my eyes.
"Do you need privacy?" Roman asked, his voice suddenly rough around the edges. He started to stand, motioning for Marcus to turn around.
"No," I whispered, pulling my nursing cover from my bag and draping it across my shoulder. "Babies don't care about privacy, Mr. Vale. They just care about survival."
As Jude latched on with a desperate, instinctive strength that nearly made me gasp, the violent, gut-wrenching crying in the compartment finally stopped.
The sudden silence was deafening.
May you like
Leo and Silas, hearing their brother settle, quieted down as well, their little chests rising and falling in rhythmic, ragged breaths.
Roman stood frozen, staring down at us. For the first time since I had stepped into the first-class car, the ruthless shipping tycoon looked like a man who had stared into the abyss and finally found a hand to pull him back.
