“It was her,” I say. “A user account tied to her work email. Same profile name she used in other places. It was all there. Time-stamped. She wrote about trying to meet me at charity events. About how if she got pregnant, she could ‘retire on baby royalties.’”
Lucas’s face goes still. “Holy shit. That’s… seriously fucked up.”
“Yeah.”
He leans back again, shaking his head. “And she never said anything?”
“Nope.” I laugh harshly, the sound scraping out of my throat. “She played it real sweet. Innocent librarian, just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
He leans back slowly. “So she was planning this?”
“Yeah,” I grit out. “From the beginning, apparently.”
Lucas is silent for a beat. Then he says, “You’re sure it was her?”
“No doubt about it. It’s her.”
His jaw clenches. “That’s next-level messed up.”
“Exactly.” I scrub a hand down my face. “And the worst part? I fucking fell for it. I thought she was different. I trusted her.”
Lucas shakes his head. “Don’t blame yourself, man. She fooled you. But you did the right thing.”
“I know I did.” I say it immediately. No hesitation. “I won’t let my kid grow up thinking manipulation is love. I won’t be my father.”
Lucas nods slowly. “You’re nothing like your dad.”
I look at him. “You don’t think I’m overreacting?”
He gives a low, dry laugh. “Dude. If someone tried to trap me with a baby and lied to my face about who they were? I’d do a hell of a lot more than send them away.”
I nod slowly, tension easing from my shoulders. Not the pain. Just the pressure.
“I needed to hear that,” I admit.
Lucas grabs his drink and raises it. “To doing the hard thing. And to your future rockstar baby who’s going to learn how to shred at six.”
I manage a rough smile, but it doesn’t reach my chest.
Because the truth is—I did the right thing.
But it still feels like I lost something I’ll never get back.
And I don’t know how to make peace with that.
***
I sit in the dark, the only light coming from the muted TV and the faint skyline bleeding through my penthouse windows.
The phone’s in my hand.
Her name is already pulled up.
Nora.
I’ve imagined this call a hundred times in my head. Each version starts with something stupid—Are you okay?Did you eat today?I miss you.But none of that matters now. None of itcanmatter.
My thumb hovers over the green button. I press it before I can change my mind.
