Chapter 8
I deleted it.
Typed again.
I’m sorry.
Deleted that too.
Sorry looked obscene.
I finally wrote:
Thank you for telling me he is safe. I will respect what you asked.
I stared at the message before sending it.
It was the first promise I had made Clara in months that cost me something immediately.
I wanted to call.
I wanted to demand.
I wanted to beg.
Instead, I put the phone down.
Ben watched me.
“She answered?”
“Noah is safe.”
His shoulders lowered slightly.
“And Clara?”
“She wants communication through her solicitor.”
Ben nodded.
“We should go.”
“To the office?”
“Yes.”
I looked toward the nursery.
“I don’t want to.”
“I know.”
That was another thing money could not do.
It could not stop the morning.
By nine thirty, there were reporters outside Cole Urban headquarters.
The moment my car appeared, cameras turned.
Questions hit the windows.
“Ethan!”
“Were you having an affair while your wife was pregnant?”
“Did you know your son was ill?”
“Is your marriage over?”
“Did Sabrina Voss leak the footage?”
“Are you stepping down?”
The driver pushed through.
Security opened the doors.
I stepped into noise.
Flashes burst across my vision.
I had walked red carpets before.
Construction openings.
Charity galas.
Industry awards.
I knew exactly how to hold my shoulders.
Exactly where to look.
Exactly how to create the impression of control.
That morning, none of it worked.
Someone shouted, “Do you regret choosing your mistress over your newborn?”
I stopped.
Security almost collided with me.
The questioner disappeared behind cameras.
But the sentence remained.
Choosing.
That was the word everyone would use.
I wanted to say it had not felt like a choice.
I had not stood in the hotel and consciously thought:
Sabrina or Noah.
Mistress or wife.
Champagne or sick child.
That was how cowards defended themselves.
We imagined choices only counted when announced dramatically.
But most lives are destroyed quietly.
One ignored message.
One drink after you should leave.
One lie.
One door you do not open.
One night you tell yourself does not matter.
I had chosen.
I just hadn’t respected the choice enough to name it.
Inside the lift, Ben said, “Don’t speak until we’ve agreed on a statement.”
“I don’t have a statement.”
“Then don’t invent one downstairs.”
The boardroom was already full.
Every face turned toward me when I entered.
No sympathy.
No concern.
Fear.
Not fear for me.