Chapter 7: The Visit
Vivienne
He shows up at my building on a Tuesday.
No call. No warning. He walks past the lobby security because apparently no one stops a man in a twelve-thousand-dollar suit who moves like he owns the world.
I'm in my office reviewing quarterly projections when my assistant buzzes in.
"Ms. Laurent," she says, voice tight. "There's—"
The door opens before she finishes.
Callum fills the frame like he was built for it.
I don't stand. I don't react.
"You can't just walk in here," I say.
"And yet." He shuts the door behind him.
My assistant's voice crackles again. "Should I call security?"
"No," I say. "It's fine."
It isn't fine.
Callum doesn't sit either. He stands across from my desk, hands in his pockets, scanning the space like he's cataloguing everything.
I already know what he's looking for.
The drawing is gone. I moved it to my apartment after the magazine piece ran. Too visible. Too identifiable. I should have removed it sooner.
"You look different," he says.
"I am different."
"More expensive," he adds, eyes dropping to my suit, my watch, the way I hold space now.
"More competent," I correct.
His jaw tightens. "I didn't come here to fight."
"Then why are you here?"
He looks at me. Direct. Stripped.
"Do you have a child?"
The room shrinks.
I feel it—that cold compression in my chest when something you've been guarding gets dragged into the open.
"That's none of your business," I say.
"It is if it's mine."
I hold his gaze.
Don't flinch. Don't blink. Don't breathe too fast.
"You fired me," I say calmly. "You replaced me before lunch. You didn't call. Not once. Not in five years."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"It answers why you don't get one."
He steps closer. Hands braced on the edge of my desk now. Leaning in.
"If you kept my child from me—"
"You kept your attention from me," I say. "When I needed it most."
"That's not the same."
"Isn't it?"
His breathing is harder now. Not angry. Desperate.
"I need to know," he says.
"No," I reply. "You want to know. There's a difference."
"Vivienne—"
"You don't get to walk into my life five years later and demand answers because it's convenient for you." My voice doesn't waver. "You made a choice. I made mine."
He stares at me.
"I'll find out," he says.
"Maybe."
"I'll get proof."
"Try."
He pushes off the desk. Straightens. His expression is something I've never seen before.
Fear.
Not of me.
Of what he missed.
"This doesn't end here," he says.
"No," I agree. "It doesn't."
He turns and walks out.
When the door closes, I exhale.
My hands are shaking.
I curl them into fists under the desk where no one can see.
Because he's right.
Lily is his.
And one way or another, this is about to detonate.
He shows up at my building on a Tuesday.
No call. No warning. He walks past the lobby security because apparently no one stops a man in a twelve-thousand-dollar suit who moves like he owns the world.
I'm in my office reviewing quarterly projections when my assistant buzzes in.
"Ms. Laurent," she says, voice tight. "There's—"
The door opens before she finishes.
Callum fills the frame like he was built for it.
I don't stand. I don't react.
"You can't just walk in here," I say.
"And yet." He shuts the door behind him.
My assistant's voice crackles again. "Should I call security?"
"No," I say. "It's fine."
It isn't fine.
Callum doesn't sit either. He stands across from my desk, hands in his pockets, scanning the space like he's cataloguing everything.
I already know what he's looking for.
The drawing is gone. I moved it to my apartment after the magazine piece ran. Too visible. Too identifiable. I should have removed it sooner.
"You look different," he says.
"I am different."
"More expensive," he adds, eyes dropping to my suit, my watch, the way I hold space now.
"More competent," I correct.
His jaw tightens. "I didn't come here to fight."
"Then why are you here?"
He looks at me. Direct. Stripped.
"Do you have a child?"
The room shrinks.
I feel it—that cold compression in my chest when something you've been guarding gets dragged into the open.
"That's none of your business," I say.
"It is if it's mine."
I hold his gaze.
Don't flinch. Don't blink. Don't breathe too fast.
"You fired me," I say calmly. "You replaced me before lunch. You didn't call. Not once. Not in five years."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"It answers why you don't get one."
He steps closer. Hands braced on the edge of my desk now. Leaning in.
"If you kept my child from me—"
"You kept your attention from me," I say. "When I needed it most."
"That's not the same."
"Isn't it?"
His breathing is harder now. Not angry. Desperate.
"I need to know," he says.
"No," I reply. "You want to know. There's a difference."
"Vivienne—"
"You don't get to walk into my life five years later and demand answers because it's convenient for you." My voice doesn't waver. "You made a choice. I made mine."
He stares at me.
"I'll find out," he says.
"Maybe."
"I'll get proof."
"Try."
He pushes off the desk. Straightens. His expression is something I've never seen before.
Fear.
Not of me.
Of what he missed.
"This doesn't end here," he says.
"No," I agree. "It doesn't."
He turns and walks out.
When the door closes, I exhale.
My hands are shaking.
I curl them into fists under the desk where no one can see.
Because he's right.
Lily is his.
And one way or another, this is about to detonate.