Back with His Twins for Christmas

Chapter 9

POV Charlotte

Leah tugged insistently at Dean's hand, utterly oblivious to the earthquake she'd caused.

The innocence of it—her small fingers wrapped around his calloused ones, her face tilted up with absolute trust—made something twist violently in my chest. She looked at him the way she'd never looked at Tom. Like he was safe. Like he was home.

I forced myself into motion before the moment could stretch any further, before Dean's searching gaze could find whatever answers were written on my face.

"Peyton can meet you and Leah in the game room," I said, and my voice came out artificially bright, brittle as spun glass. "Tom and I just need a few minutes to discuss investment details privately. Business things. Boring adult stuff."

Dean's jaw tightened. His eyes flickered between me and Tom, reading the tension in my shoulders, the rigid set of my spine.

He clearly didn't want to leave me alone with my ex—I could see the resistance coiling in every line of his body—but Leah was already pulling him toward the hallway.

"Come on, Dean! Peyton makes the best hot chocolate and she puts extra marshmallows in if you ask nicely. Do you like marshmallows? I bet you do. Everyone likes marshmallows."

I watched them go. Watched Dean let himself be led away by my daughter's small hand, his broad shoulders disappearing around the corner, his dark head bending to listen to her endless stream of words.

Something cracked beneath my ribs—something that felt terrifyingly like hope, or maybe grief, or maybe both tangled together so tightly I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

The moment they were out of sight, I rounded on Tom.

"Proof," I demanded, keeping my voice low and lethal. "If you're going to stand here making threats and promises, I want to see proof you can actually deliver. Not just words. Not just intimidation. Real investment capability."

Tom's smile didn't waver. He reached into his jacket and produced a small tablet, extending it toward me with the confidence of a man who'd anticipated every move in this chess game.

"Detailed work plan for the resort renovation. Budget projections for the next three years. Contractor contacts ready to mobilize within twenty-four hours of signing." He watched me read, watched my expression as the numbers registered. "All you have to do is say yes, Charlotte. One word and this place survives. One word and your parents keep everything they've built."

The documents were legitimate. Thorough. The kind of comprehensive planning that spoke of real intent, real resources, real power. I hated how good they looked.

"If you missed anyone over these years, it should have been the children," I said, deflecting, attacking, anything to buy time. "The children you claimed were yours. The children you abandoned the moment fatherhood became inconvenient."

Tom's expression hardened, the polished veneer cracking to reveal something colder beneath.

"Let's not pretend, shall we? I know exactly why you gave them your last name instead of mine. Evergreen, not Bradley. You knew, Charlotte. You always knew they weren't mine. Some part of you must have suspected from the beginning, and you made damn sure there was an escape route built right into their birth certificates."

"That's not true." The denial came automatically, reflexively, even as the weight of his words pressed against my chest. "I didn't know anything. The timing was—"

"Close enough to sell the lie?" Tom stepped closer, cutting off my weak protest. "Close enough to let everyone believe what was convenient? Including me?"

"You never married me." I held my ground, refusing to retreat. "You never made them Bradleys. Two years together and not once did you follow through on that engagement ring you were so proud of. So what right do you have to complain about last names now?"

Something shifted in Tom's face—calculation replacing anger, strategy overriding wounded pride.

He stepped closer still, and his voice dropped to that low, persuasive tone I remembered hating, the one he used to close business deals and seduce skeptics.

"Marry me now, Charlotte. Become Charlotte Bradley. Make this right. I'm going places—politics, real influence. You could be part of that. First Lady of Colorado someday, maybe more. Think about what that would mean for the twins, growing up with real power, real connections. Think about what it would mean for you."

I laughed. The sound came out bitter and sharp, scraping against my throat like broken glass.

"I've spent six years building myself into something, Tom. A respected marketing professional. A mother who raised two children alone. Not some politician's accessory. Not some trophy wife smiling for cameras while you shake hands with donors." I shook my head, something cold and certain settling in my chest. "I will never be your prop."

Tom's patience thinned visibly, his jaw tightening with the frustration of a man unaccustomed to hearing no.

"Your mother called me three days ago," he said, and the words stunned me. "Devastated to learn we'd broken up. Asking how things were between us, whether there was any chance of reconciliation." His smile turned knowing, cruel. "She practically begged me to come, Charlotte. So here I am. The answer to everyone's prayers."

My stomach dropped through the floor. "What exactly did you tell her?"

"I promised to invest," Tom said smoothly. "Or to buy the resort outright in three months if things don't improve. A safety net for your parents' twilight years. Very generous, very—"

"That's not what I asked." My voice came out cold, controlled, even as panic clawed at my insides. "What did you tell her about the twins? About us?"

His smile widened, and I saw the trap snap shut around me.

"I didn't tell her they aren't mine. I couldn't break the heart of a woman so clearly hoping her daughter would finally settle down with a good man. So devoted to the idea of her grandchildren having a proper father figure."

He paused, letting that sink in.

"She wants us together, Charlotte. Whether for your happiness or for the resort's survival—well, I suppose that depends on your perspective."

Jesus Christ. I am surrounded by manipulators.

My mother, calling my ex-boyfriend behind my back, practically inviting him here. Hoping for reconciliation. Hoping for salvation. And Tom, wielding that hope like a weapon, letting her believe in a future that would chain me to him forever.

I stood frozen in that alcove, the weight of impossible choices pressing down on my shoulders. Tom's threats. My mother's misplaced hopes.

And beneath it all, the devastating realization pulsing through my blood like poison—Dean was the real father of my children.

Dean, with his steel-blue eyes that matched my twins' exactly.

Dean, who had already started to love them without knowing they were his.

I couldn't tell him. Not now.

Not while Tom stood here with his folder full of promises and his head full of ammunition.

Not while my parents' entire livelihood hung by a thread he could cut with a single phone call.

The truth would light a match, and Tom would happily watch everything burn—my parents' legacy, my children's stability, whatever fragile peace I'd managed to build from the ashes of my mistakes.

I was trapped. And the only way out was forward, through the fire, praying I could survive the heat long enough to protect everyone I loved.