Page 38

He nods, accepting this. “It’s like thermal radiation left over from the Big Bang. It’s everywhere in the universe.”
“Exactly.” Skye catches my eye over his head with a look of genuine compassion. “Your grief is part of your universe now. But it’s only a part. Not everything.”
For a moment, I see beyond Skye’s persona to the woman beneath—someone who understands loss, who can talk to myson in a way he comprehends. It’s a side of her I’ve never seen before.
“I’m scared.” August’s voice goes small. “Not of the chess. I’ll win those matches easily. But of losing Dad too. When I can’t see him, when he’s away, sometimes I worry he won’t come back.”
Another sentence of his that hits like a blow. I pull him close again, pressing my face to the top of his head.
“August, I will always come back to you. Always. You are the most important person in my world.”
I feel him nod.
“You got this, buddy,” I tell him, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. “Show those women what a Burke man is made of.”
“Superior intellect and subpar dance moves?” A hint of a smile returns.
“Exactly.”
As we walk to the garden, August’s small hand in mine, I’m acutely aware of the cameras tracking our every move. This moment of reunion, of vulnerability and connection, will be edited and packaged for maximum emotional impact. My son’s grief will become content. His questions about mortality shaped into dramatic television.
But maybe some good can come from this. Maybe August will connect with one of these women in a way that helps him. Maybe seeing me in this environment will reassure him that no matter what happens with this show, he remains my priority.
The garden’s been transformed into a massive chess board, black and white squares painted onto the manicured lawn. Life-sized pieces stand at attention, waiting for human players to replace them. A small throne-like chair has been positioned for August beside the board, complete with a “Chess Master” sash draped across it.
“Whoa,” August breathes, awe in his voice. “This isamazing.”
“Only the best for you.” I try to ignore the cameras capturing his reaction.
Skye kneels to talk to August. “Each woman has fifteen minutes—five to chat with you, ten to play chess. The others will go where directed to move on the board.”
“They’ll lose,” August whispers. “Unless they’re grandmasters, the statistical probability approaches one hundred percent.”
“That’s the idea,” Skye whispers back. “We want to see how they handle losing to a nine-year-old.”
August nods. “A test of character under defeat. Got it.”
As if on cue, the sound of heels on stone announces the arrival of the contestants. They emerge from the mansion in a parade of sundresses and nervous smiles, eyes darting between August and me.
I watch my son straighten in his chair, adopting what Sarah and I used to call his “professor pose”—chin raised, hands folded in his lap, expression serious beyond his years. But underneath that composed exterior, I can see anxiety flickering in his eyes.
“Warriors!” Skye calls, her host persona sliding back in full force. “Welcome to today’s special challenge. Meet August Burke, chess fan and—more importantly—Hayes’s son.”
The women coo and aww appropriately. Gabby steps forward, dropping into a theatrical half-crouch to reach August’s eye level.
“Well, aren’t you just the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” she gushes in a baby voice. “I bet you’re super smart like your daddy.”
August regards her with the same expression he uses when examining disappointing science fair projects. “Intelligence isn’t hereditary in the simplistic sense you’re implying. It’s a complex interplay of genetics and environment. And I prefer to be judged by my skills over my appearance.”
I stifle a laugh as Gabby’s smile freezes in place. Behind her, I notice Brielle hiding a grin behind her hand.
“The rules are simple.” Skye saves Gabby from further interaction. “Each of you will have a chance to chat with August, then play a game of chess using the other women as pieces. Good luck.”
My stomach tightens. This isn’t just a challenge; it’s a glimpse into potential futures. These women aren’t just dating me; they’re auditioning for the role of August’s stepmother. The weight of that reality, of how my choices here could affect his already fragile emotional state, sits heavy on my shoulders.
As the women line up for their turns, I take my place beside August’s throne, one hand resting protectively on his shoulder. He looks up at me, a flash of vulnerability crossing his face before he masks it with determination.
“Dad?” he whispers, low enough that only I can hear. “What if none of them like me?”