Chapter 9: Cornered
Callum
She contests.
Of course she does.
My lawyer calls me Thursday morning, voice flat. "She filed opposition. It'll take weeks minimum. Possibly months."
"Speed it up," I say.
"I can't. Courts don't care about your timeline."
I hang up without thanking him.
I can't sleep. Can't focus. Every time I close my eyes, I see that crayon drawing. Mama. A child. My child. Maybe. Probably. Almost certainly.
Five years.
Five goddamn years, and she never said a word.
On Friday, I find myself outside her building again. Not planned. My driver took the route and I didn't correct him. That's the excuse I tell myself.
I don't go inside this time.
I watch.
At 5:47 PM, she walks out. Alone. Phone pressed to her ear, bag over her shoulder, moving fast in heels like she's late for something.
And she is.
Because thirty seconds later, a woman—short, dark-haired, familiar—appears at the pickup zone with a child.
Small.
Dark hair.
My jaw.
I know before I see the face clearly. I know in my chest, in my bones, in the way my body goes rigid and my hands grip the armrest so hard the leather creaks.
She's mine.
Vivienne scoops her up. The girl laughs. Wraps her arms around her mother's neck. Says something that makes Vivienne smile—real and unguarded in a way I've never seen directed at me.
I sit in the car long after they've gone.
My driver glances back. "Sir?"
"Drive," I say.
I don't know where.
Just away.
By the time I get home, I'm angry enough to destroy something. I don't. I pour a drink, sit in the dark, and think about what she took from me.
Not the company.
Not the contracts.
A child.
A first word.
A first step.
Five years of nights I'll never get back.
By Saturday morning, I don't call my lawyer.
I call her directly.
She answers on the second ring.
"Don't," she says immediately.
"I saw her," I reply.
Silence.
"She looks like me," I say.
More silence.
"I deserve to know her."
"You deserved a lot of things once," she says. "So did I."
"This isn't about us."
"It's always been about us," she snaps. First time I've heard her composure crack.
"Then let's end it," I say. "Sit down with me. No lawyers. No legal threats."
She laughs. Cold. Short. "The last time I trusted you without a buffer, you fired me in front of thirty people."
"That was different."
"Was it?"
"Yes."
Silence stretches between us.
"One meeting," I say. "You choose where. You choose when."
She doesn't answer for a long time.
"Monday," she says finally. "My office. 8 PM."
"I'll be there."
She hangs up without saying goodbye.
And I sit there knowing that whatever happens Monday—nothing will be the same after.
She contests.
Of course she does.
My lawyer calls me Thursday morning, voice flat. "She filed opposition. It'll take weeks minimum. Possibly months."
"Speed it up," I say.
"I can't. Courts don't care about your timeline."
I hang up without thanking him.
I can't sleep. Can't focus. Every time I close my eyes, I see that crayon drawing. Mama. A child. My child. Maybe. Probably. Almost certainly.
Five years.
Five goddamn years, and she never said a word.
On Friday, I find myself outside her building again. Not planned. My driver took the route and I didn't correct him. That's the excuse I tell myself.
I don't go inside this time.
I watch.
At 5:47 PM, she walks out. Alone. Phone pressed to her ear, bag over her shoulder, moving fast in heels like she's late for something.
And she is.
Because thirty seconds later, a woman—short, dark-haired, familiar—appears at the pickup zone with a child.
Small.
Dark hair.
My jaw.
I know before I see the face clearly. I know in my chest, in my bones, in the way my body goes rigid and my hands grip the armrest so hard the leather creaks.
She's mine.
Vivienne scoops her up. The girl laughs. Wraps her arms around her mother's neck. Says something that makes Vivienne smile—real and unguarded in a way I've never seen directed at me.
I sit in the car long after they've gone.
My driver glances back. "Sir?"
"Drive," I say.
I don't know where.
Just away.
By the time I get home, I'm angry enough to destroy something. I don't. I pour a drink, sit in the dark, and think about what she took from me.
Not the company.
Not the contracts.
A child.
A first word.
A first step.
Five years of nights I'll never get back.
By Saturday morning, I don't call my lawyer.
I call her directly.
She answers on the second ring.
"Don't," she says immediately.
"I saw her," I reply.
Silence.
"She looks like me," I say.
More silence.
"I deserve to know her."
"You deserved a lot of things once," she says. "So did I."
"This isn't about us."
"It's always been about us," she snaps. First time I've heard her composure crack.
"Then let's end it," I say. "Sit down with me. No lawyers. No legal threats."
She laughs. Cold. Short. "The last time I trusted you without a buffer, you fired me in front of thirty people."
"That was different."
"Was it?"
"Yes."
Silence stretches between us.
"One meeting," I say. "You choose where. You choose when."
She doesn't answer for a long time.
"Monday," she says finally. "My office. 8 PM."
"I'll be there."
She hangs up without saying goodbye.
And I sit there knowing that whatever happens Monday—nothing will be the same after.