Henry sat at the wrought-iron table beneath the shade of an old tree, a notebook open before him, its pages filled with precise handwriting and delicate anatomical sketches of a theropod skull. For a while, the only sound was the faint scratch of his pen.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand across his face before adjusting his glasses, as though trying to push away a thought that refused to settle. The soft sound of movement behind him did not go unnoticed.

“I assume,” he said without looking up, voice calm but edged with quiet resistance, “that you’ve come to convince me.” Only then did his eyes lift. “I don’t want to go.”

Your family didn’t want him. He knew it, you knew it. At best, he was tolerated.

It should have been nothing more than a family gathering, another polished afternoon in the gardens of your father’s estate, surrounded by elegance and the kind of wealth that demanded to be noticed.

But your ex-husband would be there.

Of course he would. Business arrangements between families did not dissolve as easily as marriages did, and your father had never been one to let sentiment interfere with opportunity.

His jaw tightened slightly at the thought, the tension subtle but present, as though it pressed against the careful composure he carried so naturally. It tested the limits of his patience in ways few things ever could, far more than the long hours in the field, the uncertainty of excavation sites, or the endless revisions of research that never quite felt complete.

He rested his forearms against the table, fingers brushing absently against the edge of his notebook, grounding himself in something familiar, something certain.

“And I certainly don’t like the idea of you being put back in that position again.” A brief pause followed, his gaze steady, unwavering. “Even if they pretend it’s just a lunch.”