Chapter 10
The fallout was swift and merciless.
Within 48 hours of the leaked footage, Cross Industries' board called an emergency shareholder meeting.
Nathan was stripped of his VP title. His access to company accounts was frozen. Three major clients pulled their contracts, citing "concerns about leadership stability."
Grandma Rose publicly disowned him from the family trust, her statement brief and devastating: "I raised him better than this. Clearly, I failed."
And Serena — beautiful, scheming Serena — was exposed layer by layer like an onion being peeled with a knife.
Netizens discovered her real name wasn't even Serena Walsh.
It was Sandra Wilson. A small-town con artist with a trail of wealthy targets across four cities. Each time: seduce, get pregnant, leverage the baby for financial support.
The pregnancy wasn't even Nathan's.
DNA speculation exploded across forums. One particularly determined internet detective tracked down three other men Serena had been seeing simultaneously during the conception window.
When this information reached Nathan, something in him finally shattered for real.
No performance this time. No manipulation.
His mother called me again. I almost didn't answer.
But something in her voice — the rawness of genuine fear — made me pause.
"Aria." She was crying. "He's really bad this time. Not for the cameras. He won't eat. He won't speak. He just sits in the dark and says your name."
I closed my eyes.
"Mrs. Cross, I'm sorry for what he's going through. Truly. But I can't help him. My presence would only—"
"I know." She sobbed. "I know I have no right to ask. I was terrible to you during the marriage. I looked the other way when he hid you. I'm so ashamed."
The admission caught me off guard.
"But he's my son," she whispered. "And he's disappearing."
I was quiet for a long time.
"Get him professional help," I said finally. "A psychiatrist. Not me. He needs to learn to exist without using other people as emotional crutches."
"Will you... will you at least speak to him? Once? Just so he knows you don't hate him?"
I thought about it. Really thought about it.
"No," I said gently. "Because right now, what Nathan needs is to face consequences without anyone softening the landing. That's how people actually heal."
She cried harder, but thanked me before hanging up.
Dominic was standing in the kitchen doorway, two mugs of tea in his hands.
"You okay?" he asked.
I took my mug, wrapping my cold fingers around it.
"I feel guilty," I admitted. "Even though I shouldn't."
"That's because you're a good person." He leaned against the counter beside me. "Bad people don't feel guilty about protecting themselves."
"Do you think I'm being cruel?"
"I think you're being healthy." He clinked his mug against mine. "For possibly the first time in your adult life."
...
That night, as I was falling asleep, Dominic's phone rang.
He answered in the hallway, but I heard fragments through the door:
"...tried to approach the hospital... restraining order if necessary... I don't care what it costs..."
When he came back to bed, I pretended to be asleep.
He climbed in carefully, trying not to wake me, and whispered against my hair:
"No one will ever hurt you again. I promise."
I believed him.
But the next morning, everything changed.
I woke to find a letter slipped under our apartment door — hand-delivered, not mailed.
The envelope was thick cream paper, addressed in Nathan's handwriting.
But it wasn't addressed to me.
It was addressed to Dominic.
Within 48 hours of the leaked footage, Cross Industries' board called an emergency shareholder meeting.
Nathan was stripped of his VP title. His access to company accounts was frozen. Three major clients pulled their contracts, citing "concerns about leadership stability."
Grandma Rose publicly disowned him from the family trust, her statement brief and devastating: "I raised him better than this. Clearly, I failed."
And Serena — beautiful, scheming Serena — was exposed layer by layer like an onion being peeled with a knife.
Netizens discovered her real name wasn't even Serena Walsh.
It was Sandra Wilson. A small-town con artist with a trail of wealthy targets across four cities. Each time: seduce, get pregnant, leverage the baby for financial support.
The pregnancy wasn't even Nathan's.
DNA speculation exploded across forums. One particularly determined internet detective tracked down three other men Serena had been seeing simultaneously during the conception window.
When this information reached Nathan, something in him finally shattered for real.
No performance this time. No manipulation.
His mother called me again. I almost didn't answer.
But something in her voice — the rawness of genuine fear — made me pause.
"Aria." She was crying. "He's really bad this time. Not for the cameras. He won't eat. He won't speak. He just sits in the dark and says your name."
I closed my eyes.
"Mrs. Cross, I'm sorry for what he's going through. Truly. But I can't help him. My presence would only—"
"I know." She sobbed. "I know I have no right to ask. I was terrible to you during the marriage. I looked the other way when he hid you. I'm so ashamed."
The admission caught me off guard.
"But he's my son," she whispered. "And he's disappearing."
I was quiet for a long time.
"Get him professional help," I said finally. "A psychiatrist. Not me. He needs to learn to exist without using other people as emotional crutches."
"Will you... will you at least speak to him? Once? Just so he knows you don't hate him?"
I thought about it. Really thought about it.
"No," I said gently. "Because right now, what Nathan needs is to face consequences without anyone softening the landing. That's how people actually heal."
She cried harder, but thanked me before hanging up.
Dominic was standing in the kitchen doorway, two mugs of tea in his hands.
"You okay?" he asked.
I took my mug, wrapping my cold fingers around it.
"I feel guilty," I admitted. "Even though I shouldn't."
"That's because you're a good person." He leaned against the counter beside me. "Bad people don't feel guilty about protecting themselves."
"Do you think I'm being cruel?"
"I think you're being healthy." He clinked his mug against mine. "For possibly the first time in your adult life."
...
That night, as I was falling asleep, Dominic's phone rang.
He answered in the hallway, but I heard fragments through the door:
"...tried to approach the hospital... restraining order if necessary... I don't care what it costs..."
When he came back to bed, I pretended to be asleep.
He climbed in carefully, trying not to wake me, and whispered against my hair:
"No one will ever hurt you again. I promise."
I believed him.
But the next morning, everything changed.
I woke to find a letter slipped under our apartment door — hand-delivered, not mailed.
The envelope was thick cream paper, addressed in Nathan's handwriting.
But it wasn't addressed to me.
It was addressed to Dominic.