The nurses thought I was crazy naming a baby I was giving away. But I couldn't let her go without giving her something of myself. A name, a hope, a prayer that someday, somehow I'd find her again. I built Hayes Enterprises for her. Every late night, every sacrifice, every dollar, it was all for Lily.
So that when I found her, I could give her the life I couldn't provide when I was 18. And then I found her with you. I should have told you immediately. I should have been brave. But I was terrified, Daniel.
Terrified you'd see me as a threat. Terrified you'd take Lily away from me before I ever got to know her. So, I brought cookies. I asked about her drawings. I fell in love with my daughter all over again, watching her grow, hearing her laugh, seeing glimpses of myself in her face.
And I fell in love with you, too. I didn't plan it. I didn't want it. Loving your daughter's adoptive father was a complication I didn't need. But you were kind, Daniel, patient.
The way you looked at Lily like she was the center of your universe. I knew you were a good man. I knew my daughter was safe. I need you to know something. When I asked about your bed, I wasn't propositioning you.
I was asking if there was room in your life for me. Room for Lily's birth mother, room for something that might have been beautiful if fate had given us more time. Tell Lily about me someday. Tell her I loved her from her first breath to my last. Tell her I'm sorry I couldn't stay.
And Daniel, the answer you gave me about your bed being big enough. If I was the one beside you, hold on to that. Even if I'm not there physically, I'll be there in the letter ended midsentence. Daniel turned the page over. nothing. Just that incomplete thought, that unfinished promise.
Victoria had died before she could finish. He held the letter against his chest and wept. For Victoria, for Lily, for himself, for the future that had been stolen from all of them. Outside, the rain continued to fall. And somewhere across the city in a hospital morgue, Victoria Hayes lay silent and cold.
Her secrets finally free. Her daughter finally found too late. The funeral was held on a Tuesday morning gray and cold. The kind of day that made Daniel believe God had a cruel sense of humor. He stood in the back row of St.
Michael's Cathedral. Lily's small hand clutched in his watching hundreds of people file past Victoria's closed casket. Business executives in thousand suits. Politicians with practiced expressions of grief. Celebrities who had probably met Victoria once at a charity gala and now wanted to be seen mourning her.
Daddy, why is the box closed? Daniel squeezed Lily's hand. Because Miss Victoria is sleeping, sweetheart. For how long? Forever.