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a child, had never been his child. ‘It’s the truth.’
Oscar was silent for a long moment, too long. ‘Oh, Zoe,’ he finally said, shaking his head, ‘is that what you think? That…that somehow this matters?’
‘Of course it matters,’ she’d replied, her voice torn between a hiss and a whisper. ‘It matters to me.’
‘Well, I can assure you it doesn’t matter to me,’ Oscar replied briskly. ‘If the truth must be told, Zoe, I suspected as much from before you were born—’
‘What?’ Zoe recoiled as if she’d been stung. Hurt. ‘You knew?’
‘I suspected,’ Oscar replied evenly. ‘Your mother and I—well, we hadn’t been happy together in some time—’
‘You knew all this time and you never thought to tell me?’ Zoe shook her head, blinking back angry tears.
‘Zoe,’ Oscar asked gently, ‘why would I tell you such a thing? You are—and always have been—my child in every way that matters.’
Zoe could only shake her head again, unable to voice the clamour of unsettling emotions that raced through her. How could she explain to her father that it wasn’t the same, that it did matter? She wasn’t a Balfour. She didn’t belong.
‘I know,’ Oscar continued quietly, his voice laced with his own sorrow, ‘this is difficult for you. In a matter of months you’ve lost your stepmother, and discovered you have another sister—’
‘But I don’t.’ Zoe met her father’s gaze directly. ‘Mia’s no blood relation to me.’ It hurt to say it. Only in the past few weeks had she—and the rest of her sisters—discovered Oscar’s affair before he married Lillian, and the daughter that had resulted from the one-night liaison. Yet while Mia had discovered she was a Balfour, Zoe had learned she was not. The irony tasted bitter in her mouth.
‘This isn’t about blood,’ Oscar said a bit sharply. ‘I know I’ve made my mistakes over the years, Zoe, but surely you know I’ve loved you and been a father to you.’
Tears pricked her eyes and she averted her face. ‘But I’m not a Balfour.’
Oscar was silent for a long moment, long enough for Zoe to fidget uncomfortably, afraid she’d said something too revealing.
‘I see,’ he finally said, and he sounded almost disappointed. ‘It’s simply about the name. Are you worried how people might see you? Judge you?’
Heat rushed into her face and she turned back to him. ‘So what if I am? You’re not the one whose photograph is being splashed about on the pages of every gossip rag—’
‘Actually, Zoe, I am, along with you and your sisters.’ Oscar sighed. ‘My mistakes are being proclaimed to the world, and I am learning to hold my head high in spite of them. I hope you can hold yours high too, for your last name or even the blood running through your veins doesn’t change who you are.’ Zoe said nothing. She couldn’t reply because in her mind it did.
Growing up she’d always felt different, as if she didn’t belong somehow. She’d thought it was simply because Bella and Olivia were twins; they had a bond that no one else could break or match. Or perhaps it was because she was the only one without any memories of her mother, since Alexandra had died in childbirth. Her birth. Emily had Lillian, whom everyone had loved; Kat, Sophie and Annie had their mother, Tilly, who was beloved by the other girls as well.
Zoe had no one. No mother she could call her own.
And now she knew why she’d felt so separate. It was this. She really didn’t belong. It wasn’t just a feeling; it was the truth.
‘I’d like you to go to New York,’ Oscar said, withdrawing a leather wallet from the drawer. Inside Zoe glimpsed a first-class plane ticket. ‘You can stay in the apartment there as long as you like.’
She took the wallet, her fingers digging into the soft leather. ‘Why do you want me to go?’ she asked, although she heard the question underneath: Why do you want me to leave?
Oscar sighed wearily and rubbed his eyes. ‘I read your mother’s journal myself, Zoe, and from the things she’s written, I have a good idea of who—’ He paused, and when he spoke again his voice sounded sorrowful. ‘Who your biological father might be.’
Zoe stiffened, froze. ‘You know? Who?’
Oscar waved a hand towards the wallet. ‘The details are in there. But he’s in New York, and I think it will help you to know…and perhaps even to find him.’ He paused, his smile gentle and touched with sorrow. ‘You’re stronger than you think, Zoe.’
Yet she hadn’t felt strong then, and she didn’t now. She felt appallingly, pathetically weak, too weak even to look for the man she’d come to find. Too weak and afraid to even talk to anyone at this party; every outing frayed her composure, her sense of self, a bit more, until she was left clutching the ragged edges, feeling as if she had nothing, was nothing.
Who was she? Who could she be now?
Another sip of champagne, Dutch courage. God knew, she didn’t have any of the real kind.
Max surveyed the milling crowd in the art gallery, a mass of bright, blurred shapes. Had his vision worsened in the few hours since his doctor’s appointment, or was it simply psychological? His mind, bent with fear, making him think he really was seeing less? Although if vision were simply a matter of will, surely he would see perfectly by now. He wanted nothing more.
He took a sip of champagne, one shoulder propped against the metal pillar of the soaring loft space, its walls decked with nouveau art that fortunately really were just blobs of colour.
He hadn’t wanted to come tonight; the only reason he had was because his company, Monroe Consulting, had donated an embarrassingly large amount towards this exhibition. Glancing at the walls, Max wasn’t sure why he’d allowed a quarter million dollars to fund what looked like really appallingly bad art, but he supposed it hardly mattered. Someone on his board had made the decision months ago, and he’d signed off on it because he hadn’t much cared. He’d been too busy with his life, with managing his company, flying his plane and finding the next beautiful woman to grace his arm. All those pursuits, he acknowledged grimly, would soon be denied to him, one way or another. Some, like flying, were already. For the rest it was simply a matter of time.
‘Max.’ A woman pressed his hand with both of hers, and he inhaled her cloyingly floral scent. She dropped her voice to a breathy whisper. ‘So good of you to come. Considering…’ She trailed off delicately, but Max wasn’t in a mood to let her off the hook. He couldn’t quite make out her features but the nauseating perfume and the deliberate whisper told him all he needed to know. This was Letitia Stephens, one of New York’s most prominent aging socialites, and a notoriously vicious gossip.
He arched an eyebrow and offered his most urbane smile. ‘Considering what, Letitia?’
A tiny pause, and she withdrew her hands from his, shifting her weight in a slightly discomfited manner. ‘Oh, Max.’ This was said almost reproachfully, and Max just smiled and waited. ‘Everyone has been so worried for you…since the accident…’
Suddenly Max’s moment of good humour—or something close to it—evaporated. He’d walked right into that one, but he still didn’t want to be reminded of his accident…the smoke, the sudden darkness. The spiralling into nothingness, the agonising understanding of just what had happened. The pain and the memory. No, he didn’t want to remember.
He straightened, his body stiffening, shoulders back, a position he wore like armour, remembered not only from his years in the military, but from childhood.
Stand up straight. Take it like a man.
‘Thank