I should know better than to open my mouth at all. “What?”

I consider simply telling him that I’m scared. It’s true, after all. But I owe him honesty, and so I dive in. “Are you sure you want to bring her here? Now that we know the movie might happen and the press knows all about her . . .”

I trail off, hating that I even have to remind him of all the scandal he’s been so worried about.

“I know,” he says. “And I hate even thinking about it. But we’ve thought about this before, and although it’s not ideal, we can shield her.” He glances sideways at me. “Except I’m not going to be around to help. Do you want me to keep the guardianship with Damien and Nikki? Do you think I should keep her in New Mexico with Betty?”

“No. I want her with me.” The words come automatically even though I’m not at all certain that answer is the truth. But it’s only a lie insofar as I’m scared of my own ability to take care of this little girl. As far as scandal is concerned, I think he’s right. It can be managed. It won’t be fun and it won’t be easy, but it can be done. Celebrities do it every day, and as far as PR manipulation goes, I won’t find better resources than in Los Angeles.

I nod, the motion centering me. “Seriously, it’s fine. Scandal doesn’t scare me.”

He looks at me, then stays silent for just a beat too long before saying gently, “You’re going to make a great mom.”

I feel my cheeks burn with the rising blush. “You see too much when you look at me, Jackson.”

He takes my hand. “I see competence. I see strength. I see you, Sylvia. Really. You’re going to be fine.”

I shake my head, not in protest of his words—although he really has not convinced me—but in astonishment that he is the one comforting me this morning.

Gently, I squeeze his hand. “You don’t need to worry about me,” I say. “I’m nine kinds of good. Really.”

I think he’s going to say something, but my phone pings, signaling an email, and when I check it, I also see that I missed a voice mail from last night. I check the log, then curse when I see who it’s from—my dad.

Jackson glances at me. “Are you going to listen?”

“No. Whatever he has to say, I don’t need to hear it.” But even as I’m saying the words, I’m pressing the button to play the message on speaker. I have no idea why. I guess I figure that whatever my dad has to say can’t be any worse than what Jackson and I are doing right now.

“Honey, it’s Dad. I just wanted to say one last time that I love you, and that I’m sorry. I won’t call you anymore. I just hope—well, I hope that someday we can talk again.”

And then the call ends, and that’s it.

I frown, because I heard genuine pain in my father’s voice, and I do not want to feel pity for that man. Not now. Not ever.

Shit.

I turn so that I’m looking out of the passenger window, not wanting Jackson to see my face. Because, damn me, I don’t want to reveal that something in my father’s voice actually moved me.

After a moment, his hand brushes lightly across my back. “It’s okay, you know.”

“What is?”

“To not completely hate him. That’s not the same as accepting, or even forgiving.”

I close my eyes and say nothing.

“Selling you to save Ethan was horrible. And I swear to god I could kill him for what he did to you. But at the same time I can’t help but wonder if he isn’t already dead inside. If making the choice didn’t kill him already.”

I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. I neither care nor want to care about that man. “Maybe it did kill him,” I say, because I am determined to hold tight to my anger. “Because god knows he’s dead to me already. And,” I add as I turn in my seat to face Jackson once again, “right now the only thing I want in my head is you.”

I reach for his hand. “We’re both going to be fine.” If I say it again, maybe it’ll be true. Or, at the very least, maybe I’ll start to believe it.

We reach the station and park where Harriet told us, then walk inside to the reception area. From there, we’re led to a conference room, where we find Charles waiting, along with Damien and Nikki. Damien strides forward the moment we enter to shake Jackson’s hand.

“You’re supposed to be on your way to China,” I say to him, a little panicked by the fact that the boss I’m responsible for getting everywhere he’s supposed to be has completely blown his schedule. “You were scheduled to leave Los Angeles last night. Christ, Damien, they’re going to be—”