THIRTY-FOUR
SPENCER
Gina slides the printed copy of the certified letter across my desk like she’s handing over a loaded weapon.
“There,” she says. “It’s done.”
I skim it. The legalese. The threat. The cold detachment of it all.
It’s brutal.
It’s written in a way meant to intimidate, to set the tone. It’s meant to let Rhea know who’s in charge in this battle.
But it’s too much. I know it the second I finish the first paragraph.
“Jesus, Gina. What did you tell Willoughby, anyway?”
She doesn’t flinch. “I told him this woman already had your heart in her hands and this was going to be a tough one.”
Then she looks me over like I’m a car with a cracked windshield. “And by the way? You look like shit.”
I rub my jaw. “Yeah. Well, I feel like shit.”
I stand up and start pacing. “Number one—I really cared about this woman. Number two—she didn’t strike meas the dishonest type. And number three—if Iamthe father…”
I stop, hands on hips, staring out the window, though I’m not seeing anything.
“I have no idea what to do.”
Gina doesn’t say a word. She waits.
“Yes – the angry part of me wants to go full boar. Big guns. Get everything I can—custody, rights, control. But the other part, that has me wanting to punch a hole in every wall of this goddamn house, is the idea that… if it’s true…”
I swallow hard.
“Icould have been there. I could have held her. Picked out her name. Seen her first steps. Heard her first word. I’ve missed so much.”
Finally, Gina speaks. Her voice is calm. Measured.
“Spencer… do you really believe that if Rheaknewthis was your baby—and knew what your net worth was—she’d just choose to keep it to herself and scrape by? To raise her daughter alone, without asking for a dime?”
I turn to her, jaw tight. I don’t answer.
She exhales slowly. “Here’s what I think happened: I think your little French fairytale last weekend left her believing you’d doalmost anythingfor her. Including believe this fatherless baby was yours, on her word alone. You made her feel safe—so safe she thought she could finesse the whole thing without a shred of evidence.”
Gina could be right.
Still, as hurt and angry as I am about the whole thing, in my heart I think Rhea is more capable of stubbornness born of righteousness than she is of outright deception for personal gain.
She’s not the kind of person who tries to take something that isn’t hers.
Or is that just me, being pulled in under her spell, as Gina suspects?
Time will tell.
I try to work that night—emails, investor reports, a pending acquisition I’m supposed to review—but my brain won’t stay still.
At 11:04 p.m., her name flashes across my screen.
