"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.