Part 2
For a moment, Eleanor Whitmore looked as if she had forgotten how to breathe.
The wind from the ocean lifted the edge of her pale silk jacket, and behind her, hundreds of guests leaned in with the ugly hunger of people who pretended they hated scandal while living for it. I could feel their eyes moving between my sons and Ethan, counting similarities, measuring timelines, putting together the story Eleanor had worked so hard to erase.
“You have no right to sit here,” Eleanor said, lowering her voice until it became a blade.
I kept my hands folded in my lap.
“I have every right,” I replied. “You sent the invitation, Eleanor. I simply accepted it.”
Her mouth tightened. “I invited you, not them.”
I looked at Liam, Noah, and Caleb, who were watching her with the innocent seriousness of children trying to understand adult cruelty. Something hot and protective moved through my chest, but I kept my voice calm because I had learned long ago that women like Eleanor fed on visible pain.
“They are my children,” I said. “Where I go, they go.”
