Page 17 of Beautiful When He Breaks

I nod once. “Okay.”

“My father’s sending our family lawyer this afternoon. Her name is Mara Ellison. She handles family law, custody, private disputes, and the kind of paperwork rich people use to keep their skeletons from dancing in the street.”

My heart fucking tightens at the thought of Senator King knowing this. “Your father knows?”

He takes a sip of coffee, then lowers it. “He knows a baby was abandoned on his property with paperwork naming you as the father. He knows Celeste’s parents are involved enough to have legal counsel. He knows you need protection before anyone tries to corner you into signing something stupid.”

I stare at him. “Does he know the other part?”

Killian’s eyes cool by a degree, and his jaw shifts slightly. “No. That stays with you unless you decide otherwise.”

I look toward the bassinet because I can’t sit in the relief. My daughter twitches in her sleep, her tiny mouth moving like she’s dreaming of a bottle. Or maybe newborns just do weird little things because they’re fresh humans and nobody gave them a manual.

“What does the lawyer need from me?”

“The letter. The legal paperwork and hospital discharge papers Celeste attached. I’ll hand over the surveillance footage of the baby being dropped on the porch, too. Also, anything Celeste sent you recently. Texts, voicemails, emails, missed calls, social media messages, all of it. Don’t delete anything, even if it makes you feel sick to look at, especially if it makes you feel sick to look at.”

My hand tightens around the cup.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Eli, I’m not saying you have to read through all of it alone. You don’t. But the lawyer needs a clean timeline. When Celeste left. When she stopped responding. The last time you saw her. Any conversations about pregnancy, sex, your relationship, or her parents. Anything that establishes what happened and when.”

My pulse starts thudding harder. “And if I don’t know?”

“Then you say you don’t know.”

The answer is too simple. Too impossible. “That sounds bad.”

“It’s honest.”

“It sounds like I’m lying.”

Killian’s gaze hardens. “People who are lying usually over-explain. People who’ve been fucked with doubt the shape of their own memories. Mara knows the difference.”

My throat locks, and the room tilts again. I see Celeste’s room. Her string lights. The soft pink blanket on her bed. Her mouth against my neck. Her hand around my wrist. Her voice, sweet as sugar, telling me I was being dramatic, telling me I must not love her right if I kept holding back.

I take another sip of coffee so I don’t have to speak.

Killian lets the silence sit for a moment before continuing. “Someone is coming along with Mara to take DNA samples from you and the baby. They’ll do it here, privately. Cheek swabs, nothing invasive. Proper chain of custody, because if the results matter legally, the process has to be clean.”

My eyes move to the bassinet again. I want the test. I need the test, but I’m terrified of it.

If she’s not mine, someone else belongs in the blast zone. If she is mine, then I have to look at the empty spaces in my memory and call them what they might be.

I don’t know which answer I’m praying for, and that makes me feel sick.

“What happens if she’s mine?” I ask.

“Then you’re legally her father, and Mara helps you establish that properly,” he answers. “Custody, parental rights, birth certificate corrections, medical decisions, emergency guardianship if there’s any gap, protection from Celeste’s parents trying to interfere, and whatever else applies.”

My skin prickles. “Celeste signed away her rights.”

“Maybe.”

I look at him sharply. “Maybe?”

“That paperwork means something,” he says carefully. “But I don’t know if it means everything Celeste thinks it means. That’s why Mara’s coming. There are laws about abandonment, surrender, custody, and parental rights. There may be court steps. There may be agency involvement because the baby was left at the door. We need the facts before anyone decides what the letter means.”