The wait was suffocating. Every second stretched like rubber bands pulled too tight. Then he saw him—Jules, tall and confident in scrubs, walking toward him with a calm, polite smile. Vincent’s chest tightened. His son. He looked so much like Linda it made Vincent dizzy.
“Hi,” Vincent said, rising to meet him. “I’m Vincent. Vincent Smith.” Jules tilted his head, puzzled. “Hi, Vincent. Do I know you?” There was warmth in his voice, but no recognition. That warmth cut deeper than contempt would have. Vincent’s throat tightened. Linda hadn’t told them. Of course she hadn’t.