I didn't protect Bailey from my father's legacy.
Ibecameit.
She was pregnant, vulnerable, trying to tell me something important. And I cut her off. Fired her. Ensured she'd hate me so I'd never have to face my fear of becoming my father.
By doing exactly what he would have done.
The irony would be funny if it wasn't ripping me apart.
I don't know how long I sit here. Eventually, the tears stop. The panic fades to a dull, throbbing ache.
I need to see her. Need to apologize. Need to—
What? Fix this? There's no fixing this.
But Ihave to try.
I start the car. Drive to her apartment on muscle memory. Park outside, engine still running.
What am I going to say? I'm sorry I called you a liability while you were pregnant with my child? I'm sorry I destroyed your career and your life? I'm sorry I became exactly what I was terrified of becoming?
None of it is enough.
But I'm here. And I have to try.
I kill the engine. Walk to her building. Ring her buzzer.
No answer.
I ring again. And again.
Finally, the intercom crackles. "Daniel?"
Bailey's voice. I haven't heard it in days and it hits me like a gut punch.
"Bailey, I need to talk to you. Please. I know about—"
"Go away."
"I know about the baby. I'm so sorry. I was wrong about everything—"
"I said go away."
The intercom goes silent.
I stand there, finger hovering over the buzzer. Press it again.
This time, footsteps. The building door opens.
Bailey stands in the doorway, and she looks different. Exhausted. Older. There are dark circles under her eyes, and her face has that particular hollowness that comes from not sleeping, not eating, barely surviving.
"Bailey—"
"You need to leave."
Her voice is calm. Too calm. I expected yelling, tears, something. This cold composure is infinitely worse.
"Please, just let me explain. I was scared and I panickedand—"
