Chapter 9 - THE EIGHT YEARS BETWEEN US
Griffin did not kiss me.
I thought he might.
Part of me wanted him to.
Part of me would have slapped him afterward.
Instead, he said, “We should probably not make major emotional decisions during a federal investigation.”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
“That may be the most reasonable thing you’ve said all week.”
“I run an AI company.”
“That has never automatically made anyone reasonable.”
He smiled.
Then he left.
For two weeks.
Not left our lives.
Left the house.
Every morning, he picked Hazel and Iris up for school.
Every afternoon, he returned them.
We began with supervised time because that was what the family counselor recommended.
Not because I thought Griffin was dangerous.
Because my daughters had gone from no father to a billionaire father in the middle of a kidnapping investigation.
Normal needed to be reconstructed carefully.
Griffin handled it better than I expected.
He did homework.
Badly.
He learned Hazel hated multiplication worksheets.
He learned Iris would read past midnight unless someone confiscated her flashlight.
He attended a parent conference and somehow convinced three teachers to explain the entire school technology policy.
He burned pancakes.
Hazel photographed the evidence.
He discovered that eight-year-olds do not care about market capitalization.
They care whether you remember Tuesday is library day.
Griffin remembered.
He had missed eight years.
He did not try to buy them back.
That mattered.
One Saturday morning, he arrived carrying four coffees.
“Girls don’t drink coffee,” I said.
“Hot chocolate.”
I accepted mine.
“How did you know my order?”
“You drank the same thing for six years.”
“People change.”
“You didn’t.”
He was right.
Annoying.
We sat on the porch while the girls built something questionable from cardboard.
“Richard was formally charged.”
“I saw.”
“Conspiracy, financial fraud, kidnapping-related offenses.”
“And your father?”
“Prosecutors are still building the case.”
“I’m sorry.”
He looked toward the street.
“I spent seventeen years believing Dad died because he was careless.”
“You were twenty-three.”
“Richard told me he ignored weather warnings.”
I touched his hand.
“Griffin.”
“He rewrote my father’s death and I believed him.”
“Manipulation works because it uses something believable.”
He looked at me.
“You would know.”
That landed.
I pulled my hand away.
“I deserved that.”
“No.”
He closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re allowed to be angry.”
“I am.”
“So am I.”
That surprised him.
“At me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because part of me is furious you became exactly who Richard said you would become.”
His expression hardened.
“What does that mean?”
“Untouchable.”
“I’m not.”
“You became richer than him. More powerful. More famous.”
“Without committing his crimes.”
“I know.”
I looked at my coffee.
“But when I saw your face on magazines, it confirmed every fear I had. I thought if I came back, I’d be dragging the girls into a world of bodyguards and board fights and people who treated relationships like leverage.”
“You were right about the bodyguards.”
I almost smiled.
He continued.
“But wrong about me.”
“Yes.”
The admission hurt.
“I was wrong about you.”
He sat very still.
“I wish you’d given me the chance to prove it.”
“I know.”
That was the wound between us.
Love had survived.
Trust had not.
Trust would require work.
So we worked.
Counseling.
Not romantic.
Family.
Then separate sessions.
Eventually, Griffin and I went together.
The counselor asked why I left.
“Fear.”
Why I stayed away.
“Shame.”
Why Griffin never stopped looking.
He answered, “I did stop.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“After two years.”
I had always imagined him waiting.
He hadn’t.
Reality was less romantic and more honest.
“I dated people,” he said.
“I almost got married once.”
My chest tightened.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“I realized I was choosing someone because she didn’t frighten me emotionally.”
The counselor raised an eyebrow.
“That sounds healthy.”
“Apparently not.”
I laughed.
Then cried later in my car.
Griffin had lived.
Of course he had.
I had no right to resent it.
But grief is rarely ethical.
Three months passed.
Richard remained in custody awaiting trial.
Caleb pleaded guilty and cooperated.
My mother began therapy.
Our relationship did not magically repair.
I loved her.
I also no longer let her make decisions for me.
Both could be true.
Thomas Vale’s surviving sister received an apology from Griffin and a full accounting of what happened.
Malcolm Drake’s ledger helped recover hundreds of millions in diverted assets.
A portion restored the twins’ trust.
Griffin announced another portion would fund independent whistleblower protections and employee legal support.
“Dad would have liked that,” he said.
I agreed.
Then came December fourteenth.
Hazel and Iris turned nine.
Their first birthday with Griffin.
He was unbearable.
“Do we need two cakes?”
“Yes.”
“They’re twins.”
“They’re two people.”
That was impossible to argue with.
He rented nothing.
No celebrity guests.
No luxury venue.
The girls wanted a backyard party with ten classmates.
Griffin spent two hours hanging paper stars.
At one point, I found a billionaire standing on a ladder because Hazel insisted one decoration was crooked.
“Left.”
“I moved it left.”
“More.”
“This is structurally unsafe.”
“You own robots.”
“None of them can satisfy your standards.”
“More left.”
I laughed so hard I had to sit down.
That evening, after the guests left, Hazel and Iris opened Griffin’s final gift.
Two photo albums.
The first pages were blank.
Hazel frowned.
“You forgot pictures.”
“No.”
Griffin sat opposite them.
“I missed your first eight years.”
The room quieted.
“I can’t change that.”
He turned the page.
A copy of their first school photo sat beside an empty space.
“So I thought we could fill in what I missed together.”
I looked at him.
He had asked me for photographs weeks earlier.
I thought he wanted copies.
“I want you to choose what goes in,” he told them.
“Baby pictures too?” Iris asked.
“Especially baby pictures.”
Hazel smiled.
Then pulled out her phone.
“Can we add the photo of Mom sleeping with spaghetti on her shirt?”
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” Griffin said.
Betrayal everywhere.
Later, after the girls slept, Griffin and I stood in the kitchen.
Snow had begun outside.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For humiliating you with photographs?”
“For not trying to erase what you missed.”
He looked at me.
“I was angry at time.”
“So was I.”
“I kept thinking if I gave them enough now, maybe the missing years would hurt less.”
“Do they?”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“I think they’re supposed to hurt.”
“Why?”
“So I remember what secrecy costs.”
I swallowed.
We stood inches apart.
Then Griffin whispered, “Sloan.”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to kiss you unless you tell me not to.”
Eight years ago, he would have simply kissed me.
We were different people now.
I touched his coat.
“Don’t stop.”
He kissed me slowly.
No desperation.
No attempt to reclaim the past.
It felt like beginning something new with someone I had once known better than anyone.
When we separated, Griffin rested his forehead against mine.
“I still love you.”
“I know.”
“That’s your response?”
“I’m trying not to make major emotional decisions during a federal investigation.”
He stared at me.
Then laughed.
“You’re cruel.”
“Learning boundaries.”
He kissed me again.
Upstairs, Hazel yelled:
“WE CAN HEAR YOU.”
I jumped away.
Griffin shouted back, “GO TO SLEEP.”
Iris called:
“ARE YOU GETTING MARRIED?”
“No!” I yelled.
Griffin said at the exact same time:
“Not tonight!”
I turned slowly.
“Not tonight?”
He smiled.
I pointed toward the couch.
“You’re sleeping there.”
“Worth it.”
May you like
And for the first time, I began to believe the years between us did not have to be the ending.
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