I never expected three little triplets pointing at my tattoo to unlock an eight-year-old secret I thought was buried forever.

We met at a small coffee shop in Brooklyn, far from Manhattan, far from the world Camila lived in.

I got there early, my hands sweating, my heart in my throat. I'd worn my cleanest shirt again, shaved, even combed my hair. I looked like a man going to a job interview instead of meeting the woman who might be the mother of his children.

She walked in ten minutes later.

No makeup. A plain sweater and jeans. Her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. She looked younger, more like the girl I'd known in Seattle.

Her eyes scanned the room and found mine.

She hesitated for just a second, then walked toward my booth. She slid into the seat across from me, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

"You look good," she said finally. Her voice was soft, tentative.

"You look tired."

A bitter laugh escaped her. "I am tired."

The waitress came over. Camila ordered a tea, black. I already had a coffee growing cold in front of me.

When we were alone again, I didn't waste time.

"Are they mine?"

The question hung between us.

Camila's eyes filled with tears. She nodded, once, so slightly I almost missed it.

"Yes."

The word was barely a whisper, but it hit me like a tidal wave.

Regina. Lucy. Valerie.

My daughters.

I closed my eyes, a thousand emotions crashing through me. Joy. Terror. Anger. Love. So much love it hurt, even though I'd barely spoken to them.

"Why didn't you tell me?" My voice was rough with emotion. "Eight years, Camila. Why?"

She looked down at her hands. "I was scared."

"Of me?"

"No." She looked up, her eyes fierce. "Never of you. Of them. Of my family. Of Richard."

She took a shaky breath and began to talk.

She told me about growing up a Montgomery. The expectations. The pressure. The way her parents had controlled every aspect of her life until she'd run away to Seattle at twenty-two, desperate for just one taste of freedom.

She told me about that night. About meeting me in that bar. About feeling, for the first time in her life, like she could just be herself.

"I didn't plan it," she said, tears streaming down her face now. "The tattoo, the night... it just happened. And then I found out I was pregnant, and I was so happy, and so scared, and I tried to find you but—"

"You left before I woke up," I said, the old hurt rising.

"I know. I'm sorry. I was young and stupid and my brother tracked me down. He showed up at my hotel room, told me my father was dying, that I had to come home. I thought I'd only be gone a week. I thought I could come back, find you, explain everything."

Her voice broke.

"But when I got home... my father wasn't dying. It was a lie. They locked me in the house. They took my phone, my wallet, everything. They told me I'd shamed the family. That I had to marry Richard to fix it."

"Richard already knew?"

"He'd been pursuing me for years. My father practically offered me to him. When they found out I was pregnant... they told Richard. He said he'd marry me anyway, raise the children as his own, save the family name from scandal. On one condition."

She paused, swallowing hard.

"I was never to contact you. Never to tell you the children existed. Never to mention Seattle or that night ever again. If I did... he said he'd make sure you never worked again. That he'd ruin you. That he'd take the girls away from me too, raise them without me if I ever stepped out of line."

I felt sick.

"So you stayed," I said.

"I stayed." Her voice was barely audible. "I thought it was the only way to keep them safe. To keep you safe."

"Camila..." I reached across the table, my hand covering hers. She flinched at first, then relaxed, her fingers curling around mine. "You didn't have to do this alone."

"I thought I did." She pulled her hand back, wiping at her tears. "But then the girls... they found an old photo of me. The tattoo. They kept asking about it. And then last month, Margaret took them to the park, and they saw you..."

She trailed off, a small, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips.

"They wouldn't stop talking about you. About the man with the same tattoo as Mommy. They kept saying you looked 'nice.' That they felt like they knew you."

My throat tightened.

"Richard doesn't know they spoke to me, does he?"

"No." Camila's eyes filled with fear again. "He can't. If he finds out you're in New York, that you've met them... Ethan, he's dangerous. You have no idea."

"I have some idea," I said, thinking of what Frank had told me. "Camila, let me help you. Let me get you and the girls out."

She shook her head frantically. "You don't understand. He has everything. Money, lawyers, connections. He'll destroy you before you even get started."

"Then we'll be smart about it. I've got a private investigator. We're gathering evidence. About his temper, about how he controls you. We can build a case."

"It's not enough." Her voice was desperate. "He's too powerful."

"Then we'll get more evidence. We'll find a way. Camila, those are my daughters too. I'm not going anywhere this time."

She looked at me, and for a second, I saw hope flicker in her eyes.

Then her phone buzzed.

She looked at the screen and went pale.

"It's him," she whispered. "He's back early."

She stood up, grabbing her bag. "I have to go. Ethan... if he finds out I'm here..."

"Camila, wait—"

"I'll find a way to contact you," she said quickly, already backing away. "Through Margaret. Don't try to find me. Don't come to the house. Promise me."

"Camila—"

"Promise me!"

"I promise."

She turned and ran out of the coffee shop.

I sat there, my hands trembling, my mind reeling.

They were mine. My daughters. And Camila was trapped in a nightmare with a man who'd stolen eight years of their lives.

I pulled out my phone and called Frank.