His Forgotten Night, Our Secret Son

Claire POV:

"Are you seriously skipping Rebecca's bachelorette pre-party tonight?"

My younger sister, Sophie Bennett, leaned against my office doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest.

I rolled my shoulders, feeling the satisfying pop in my upper back, and hit save on the architectural rendering. The office was quiet. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Boston sky was turning a bruised purple.

I started stacking the blueprints on my desk. My five-year-old son, Oliver Bennett, would be waiting for me at home.

Oliver had come from one reckless, unforgettable night in Denver with Ryan Carter, a devastatingly handsome hockey star. I had left Ryan my number, but he never called. When I found out I was pregnant, the voicemail I left him went unanswered.

Thinking of Ryan was like one of those canker sores that kept coming back. Most days, I could forget it was there. Then I'd smile too wide or take a bite of something, and the pain would flare, sharp and immediate. Six frantic years had pushed him into the deepest corner of my mind, but one look into Oliver's bright blue eyes-so much like his father's-could bring back that infuriating, unfairly handsome hockey star.

"I have to make dinner for Oliver. Besides, romance and I have reached an understanding: it disappoints me, and I stop volunteering. If staying single keeps my life peaceful, I'm prepared to die alone."

As my partner in the architecture firm we'd built together, Sophie never held back. "By 'peaceful,' you mean free of single men?"

I grabbed my trench coat from the hook. "I'm just tired, Sophie."

"You're not tired, you're terrified," she shot back, her tone sharp. "You haven't been on a real date since Daniel. Come on, Claire. Oliver is five. You're twenty-nine. Are you planning to be the Virgin Mary for the rest of your life?"

My stomach dropped at the mention of Daniel. He had been my last doomed attempt at dating, a man I'd let into my life only to have him look me in the eye and say, "I love everything about you, except your kid."

That was the problem with letting someone close. Sooner or later, they found the one part of me they couldn't accept, and I was left picking up the pieces. I had learned not to trust promises, and whenever anyone got too close, I pushed them away before they had the chance to leave. More importantly, I could never let Oliver grow up with a stepfather who didn't love him wholeheartedly.

I shoved my arms into my coat sleeves. "I'm not terrified. I just don't need it. I have you, I have Oliver, and we have the firm. That's enough."

Sophie sighed, her expression softening just a fraction. She walked over and fixed my collar. "I know. But it pisses me off. You sacrificed your entire twenties. You shouldn't have to sacrifice your thirties, too."

I forced a smile and patted her hand. "Worry about your own love life. Didn't you go out with a drummer last week?"

Her face instantly soured, the distraction working perfectly. We locked up the office and walked out to the parking lot.

Ten minutes into my drive home, my phone rang through the car's Bluetooth. It was Rebecca Collins, a close friend of mine and Sophie's.

"Claire! Tell me you're coming tonight. Abigail is going to be there!" Rebecca yelled over the background noise.

I kept my eyes on the road. "Sorry, Rebecca. Friday nights are Oliver time."

Rebecca groaned loudly. "Fine, mother of the year. But you are absolutely coming to your brother's party tomorrow night, right? Nathan is doing a huge backyard barbecue."

Nathan Bennett was my older brother and one of the most influential agents in the NHL. After Dad abandoned us, Nathan gave up his own dream of becoming a professional hockey player and became the man who held our family together, raising Sophie and me while building his career from nothing. I loved him more than I knew how to say, which made refusing his invitation nearly impossible.

My grip on the steering wheel tightened. Nathan's parties meant the entire Boston sports world would be there. Professional athletes and their flawless WAGs.

I knew I was being judgmental, but I couldn't help seeing them as a crowd of oversized egos, polished smiles, and women who treated every gathering like a competition. I had no desire to insert myself into their glossy little world.

"I'll... see if I can make it," I deflected.

"Don't even try it," Rebecca warned. "I invited you, not Nathan. Plus, you need to see Grace's engagement ring. It's blinding."

Grace Turner was Nathan's fiancée and my future sister-in-law. She was also far too lovely for me to use her as an excuse to stay home.

I hung up and let out a long breath. I loved my brother, but his world as a top-tier sports agent was exhausting.

I pulled into my driveway. The second I opened the front door, a small body crashed into my legs.

"Mommy, look! I drew a bluebird!" Oliver held up a piece of construction paper. His bright blue eyes were wide with excitement.

My heart squeezed. I kissed his forehead and scooped him up. "It's beautiful, baby. Are you hungry? Let's make pasta."

During dinner, Oliver shoved a noodle into his mouth and looked at me. "Mommy, Aunt Sophie said you used to be a really good dancer. Is that true?"

I choked on my water. I shot a glare at Sophie, who was sitting across the table eating our food. Dancing. That felt like a lifetime ago. Before a single night changed my entire existence.

"That was a long time ago, buddy," I said quickly, wiping my mouth.

Sophie kicked my shin under the table, raising an eyebrow.

Later, after I tucked Oliver into bed and turned on his cricket white-noise machine, I walked back out to the living room.

Sophie handed me a glass of red wine. "Still stressing about Nathan's party tomorrow?"

I took a sip, the alcohol burning a pleasant trail down my throat. "I just hate feeling like an outsider in my own brother's house."

"Then don't go," Sophie said flatly.

"It's to celebrate his engagement to Grace. I have to go." I rubbed the silver pendant on my necklace, a nervous habit I couldn't break.

Sophie sat forward. "What are you actually afraid of, Claire? The mean girls, or the possibility that you might actually meet a guy you like?"

I stared at my wine glass. Maybe both. Hope was a dangerous thing. Our father had taught us that lesson perfectly.

After Mom died of cancer, Dad had drowned himself in alcohol and eventually abandoned our family altogether. Watching him choose a bottle and an escape over his own children had taught me that promises never lasted-and depending on someone only gave them the power to leave.

Sophie didn't push it. We sat in silence, watching terrible late-night TV.

I took another sip of wine. I would go. I would show up, congratulate Nathan, avoid the hockey players, and leave. It was just one night. Nothing was going to happen.

For one treacherous second, memory dragged me back six years: Ryan Carter's mouth moving down my throat, his callused hand sliding over my bare waist, the heat of his body pressing me into the hotel sheets while I forgot every reason to be careful. By morning, the night had felt less like a mistake and more like the beginning of something. Then Ryan vanished without a word, and I discovered I was carrying his child.

Ryan was a hockey player, too. But Boston was a huge city, and six years was a lifetime. There was no chance I would walk into Nathan's party and find Ryan Carter waiting there.