“And you think I might be a match?”
“The doctors say if you are her biological father, you have a fifty-percent chance of being compatible.”
I closed my eyes.
“Julian, I know this is a lot to ask. I know I have no right. But will you come to Seattle? Will you get tested?”
The pause that followed felt endless. Then he said, without hesitation:
“When do you need me there?”
“By Friday morning for HLA testing.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow.”
My eyes flew open.
“Tomorrow?”
“Ten a.m. Seattle Children’s Hospital.”
“Yes.”
“The rest can wait,” he said gently. “Right now what matters is that little girl. She needs help. I’ll be there.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“Isabelle,” he said softly, “you don’t have to thank me. If she’s mine, if there is even a chance she’s mine, I want to help.”
When the call ended, I sat there in the empty waiting room with tears streaming down my face. Tomorrow Julian would walk back into my life. Tomorrow I would have to face the consequences of a night I had spent eleven years trying to forget. But for the first time since Dr. Whitman’s phone call, I felt something besides terror. Sophie might have a chance.
By the time Wednesday morning arrived, I had been awake for twenty-six hours. I sat in the hospital cafeteria nursing a cup of coffee gone cold, watching the clock inch toward ten. Julian would be here any minute. The man I had not seen in eleven years. The man who might be Sophie’s father. Last night’s phone call looped through my head over and over. Isabelle, is that really you? And then: I’ll be there tomorrow. At exactly ten o’clock, I looked up and saw him walk through the cafeteria entrance. Julian Reed, forty-two now, with the same dark brown hair I remembered, though there were streaks of silver at his temples that hadn’t been there before. He was taller than Graham, broader through the shoulders, wearing jeans and a navy sweater instead of the expensive courtroom armor Graham always preferred. His eyes found mine across the room, warm hazel and steady, and for one suspended moment neither of us moved. Then he crossed the room and sat down across from me.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
It was absurd, after all of this, after a decade of silence, after a child’s life had suddenly threaded itself between us, that all we had were those two tiny words. Julian studied my face.
“Are you okay?”
That question nearly undid me. Graham would have demanded facts, timelines, explanations. Julian just wanted to know if I was all right.
“No,” I admitted.
He reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
“Tell me everything.”
So I did. I told him about Sophie’s diagnosis, the DNA test, the revelation that Graham was not the father of either girl, about that night eleven years ago, about the fight with Graham, the company event, and the mistake I had regretted for over a decade.
“I thought they were both Graham’s,” I said. “I never imagined… I didn’t even know this was possible.”
Julian sat with it for a long time.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?”
“Because I thought they were his. I had gone back to Graham. We got married two months later. By the time I found out I was pregnant, we were planning the wedding.” I swallowed hard. “I thought it was his.”
“And now you know Sophie might be mine, or Ruby might be mine.”
“The DNA test showed they have different biological fathers. I don’t know which one is which yet.”
Julian leaned back, processing.
“So one of them is Graham’s and one of them is mine.”
“Yes.”
“And the one who needs the transplant… Sophie… she might be mine.”
“She might be. Or Sophie might be Graham’s and Ruby might be yours. We won’t know until we do more testing.”
Julian ran a hand through his hair and let out a breath.
“This is a lot.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.”
“Hey.” His voice was gentle, firm. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t know. And right now what matters is saving that little girl’s life, whether she’s mine or not.”
He looked me straight in the eye.
“Let’s do the test.”
Two hours later Julian was rolling up his sleeve in Dr. Whitman’s office while I stood in the corner feeling as though I had stepped outside my own body. Dr. Whitman explained the procedure.
“We’ll run a rapid HLA-typing panel. If you’re a match, we can proceed with transplant within the next week. The results should be ready by this evening.”
“And if I’m not?” Julian asked.
“Then we keep searching. But statistically, if you are Sophie’s biological father, you have a fifty-percent chance of being compatible. That is significantly better than an unrelated donor.”
Julian nodded.
“Let’s do it.”
The draw took five minutes. Then it was waiting again. That afternoon Marcus called to tell me the Morrison Tower clients had officially pulled the contract. Two point eight million dollars gone. My firm was hemorrhaging money. I should have cared more than I did. I simply didn’t have space left in me. Around four Graham called.
“Who the hell is Julian Reed?” he demanded the second I answered.
“How do you know that name?”
“I have a friend who works at the hospital. They told me some man showed up claiming to be Sophie’s father. What the hell is going on, Isabelle?”
“He’s a potential bone marrow donor.”
“Bullshit. You brought your lover into my daughter’s life.”
“He’s not my lover. He’s someone who might be able to save Sophie. That is all that matters.”
“If you think I’m going to let some stranger—”
I hung up. At six Dr. Whitman called Julian and me back to her office. We sat side by side, not touching, barely breathing.
“The HLA results are in. Julian, you are a five-out-of-ten match with Sophie. Haploidentical, typical for a parent-child relationship. It is compatible for transplant.”
Tears spilled down my face so fast I couldn’t wipe them away.
“So I’m her father,” Julian said quietly.
“The DNA confirms it,” Dr. Whitman said. “You are Sophie’s biological father.”
Julian looked at me, then back at Dr. Whitman.
“Can I meet her?”
At nine that night, Dr. Whitman led Julian to Sophie’s room. Ruby had been moved to a separate room for the night, so Sophie was alone. I went in first.
“Sophie, honey, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
She looked up from her book. She was pale and thin, but alert.
“Who?”
“His name is Julian. He’s…” I hesitated. “He’s going to help you get better.”
Julian stepped into the room, and I watched his face change the instant he saw her. It wasn’t the look of a stranger. It was recognition. Sophie had his expressive eyes, the shape of his nose, the softness around the mouth when she smiled.
“Hi, Sophie,” Julian said softly. “I’m Julian.”
Sophie studied him with grave seriousness.
“Are you my real dad?”
