The gala. The night with Carter. The missed number. The positive pregnancy test. The attempt to tell him. The collapse. His suspicions. The investigation.
“He investigated you?” Charlotte’s voice went dangerously quiet.
“Language,” Gran warned automatically, though her own expression was thunderous.
“No, it’s fine,” Natalie said, wiping her eyes. “He had reasons. A woman lied to him before. About a pregnancy. I… I get why he’s cautious.”
“Cautious is one thing,” Charlotte snapped. “Treating you like a criminal is another.”
She paced the small living room.
“I’m going to call him. I’m going to—”
“You’re going to do nothing,” Natalie interrupted.
“Nat—”
“This is my situation. My mess. I’ll handle it.”
“By yourself?” Charlotte demanded.
“I’ve handled worse by myself,” Natalie said bitterly.
Gran and Charlotte exchanged a look—the kind that said they were both remembering eight‑year‑old Natalie at her mother’s funeral, teenage Natalie working two jobs, twenty‑something Natalie building a freelance career from scratch.
“You don’t have to do everything alone,” Gran said softly, settling on the couch beside her. “That’s what family is for.”
“And friends,” Charlotte added. “Annoying, persistent friends who won’t leave you alone even when you try to push them away.”
Natalie managed a watery laugh.
“You’re not annoying,” she said.
“Lies,” Charlotte scoffed. “I’m extremely annoying. It’s my best quality.”
She sobered.
“So what’s the plan?” she asked. “Are you going to let him do the paternity test?”
“Eventually,” Natalie said. “When I’m ready. On my terms.”
Her hand drifted to her stomach.
“But I’m keeping this baby either way,” she added quietly. “With or without him.”
“Of course you are,” Gran said, squeezing her hand. “You’re going to be an amazing mother.”
“Even if the father thinks I’m after his money,” Natalie muttered.
“He doesn’t think that,” Charlotte said firmly. “If he did, he wouldn’t have apologized. Wouldn’t have sent that text. He’s just scared and not thinking clearly. Men usually aren’t.”
“Hey,” Gran protested. “Your grandfather was a man.”
“My grandfather was the exception that proves the rule,” Charlotte said.
She turned back to Natalie.
“Look, I’m not defending him,” she said. “What he did was wrong. But I’ve seen you two together.”
“You haven’t,” Natalie pointed out. “It was one night.”
“I saw the way he looked at you at the gala,” Charlotte said. “Like you were the only person in the room. Like he’d been looking for you his whole life and finally found you.”
Her expression softened.
“That kind of connection doesn’t just disappear,” she said.
“Connection doesn’t matter if there’s no trust,” Natalie said.
“Then make him earn it back,” Charlotte said bluntly. “Make him work for it. But don’t shut the door completely.”
She pulled out her phone.
“And speaking of doors,” she said, “I’m texting him your prenatal appointment schedule. If he wants to be involved, he can start by showing up when it matters.”
“Charlotte—”
“Too late,” Charlotte said, thumbs flying. “Already sent. You can thank me later.”
Natalie wanted to argue, wanted to insist she could handle this alone.
But the truth was, she was terrified.
Terrified of being a single mother.
Terrified of raising a child without support.
Terrified of her baby growing up wondering why their father didn’t want them.
Her phone buzzed.
Carter: “I’ll be at every appointment. Every ultrasound. Every checkup. If you’ll let me.”
She stared at the message for a long time before responding.
“First appointment is next Wednesday. 2 p.m. Dr. Sarah Chen at Brooklyn Women’s Health. Don’t be late.”
His response was immediate.
“I’ll be there.”
Despite everything—the hurt, the anger, the disappointment—Natalie felt the tiniest flicker of hope.
Carter arrived at Brooklyn Women’s Health at 1:47 p.m.—thirteen minutes early.
He’d left a board meeting mid‑presentation, much to his CFO’s horror, and ridden across Brooklyn with Marcus driving only slightly above the legal speed limit.
Now he sat in his Bentley, staring at the unassuming medical building and trying to remember how to breathe like a normal human being.
He was going to see his baby.
Maybe.
Probably.
The appointment was at ten weeks, which meant there should be something visible, something real.
If she even let him in the room.
He’d sent flowers—six arrangements over the past week. Each one had been rejected and returned by an apologetic delivery person who reported that “the lady said absolutely not.”
He’d tried calling: voicemail.
