"That one time things got a little too crazy, and he forgot to use protection... and then, well." She shrugged. "He told me to keep the baby. Said the wife's kid had some terminal illness anyway, so my son would be his only heir."

"Do you have kids?"

"I did."

My gaze drifted to the boy, and I went rigid.

Why?

The navy-blue suit I'd sewn by hand for my son before he died. Why was her child wearing it?

...

No. My husband, Dominic Ashford, was just a regular working-class guy. How could he possibly be some billionaire?

I fought to keep my hands from shaking. "That's a cute outfit on him. Did you buy it?"

"No. It belonged to his dead kid."

She barely glanced at it, her tone breezy and indifferent.

"Clothes off a dead child are bad luck. Plus it's ugly. I wouldn't have looked twice at it normally."

"But on the day my son started preschool, the wife's brat was being buried, and what does he do? Runs back to comfort her. Couldn't even be bothered to show up for his own son's first day of school!"

I stared at the little deer embroidered on the right side of the chest, each stitch placed by my own hand, and those hopeless days came flooding back.

In my son's final hours, he begged me to buy him something with a little deer on it.

It was the only thing he'd ever asked for in his four short years of life.

I couldn't even afford his medical bills. I went to sell my blood for the fifth time, bought the finest fabric I could find, and sewed this little suit by hand.

But when the suit was finished, my son was gone before he ever got to wear it.

I cried until I passed out, over and over, my heart shattered beyond repair.

Dominic, who hadn't rested in months, took time off to handle the funeral arrangements, running himself ragged taking care of everything.

When I finally came to, the suit was gone. He held me and wept.

"I was afraid it would break your heart all over again, so I buried it with him."

"It's my fault. I'm useless. I couldn't earn enough money to save our son."

I looked at his bloodshot eyes and the deep shadows carved beneath them, and shook my head through my tears.

"It's not your fault. Dominic, you did everything you could. You were a good father."

For days and nights after that, I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep.

In the small hours of the morning, he'd drag himself home, exhausted to the bone, and still find the strength to hold me, soothing me gently.