Chapter Seven
Spencer
Dr. Klein shifts subtly in her chair, eyes still fixed on me, a little softer now, less like a question and more like a hand extended in reassurance.
“You didn’t lose everything, Spencer. But it sounds like the clubs have fractured something—maybe in your dynamic with Sophie, maybe in your sense of control, or safety . . . or yourself.”
She pauses, and her voice lowers a touch.
“When you say you didn’t see it coming—what do you think you missed?”
I shift in my seat, swallowing down the sudden dryness in my throat, gazing longingly at the seat bed that had been so comfortable yesterday. A wave of tiredness sweeps over me.
“I think . . .” I start, then falter. My tongue is too large for my mouth.
“I think I let myself believe we were untouchable.”
Dr. Klein doesn’t interrupt, just waits.
“We’d built something so different . . . so beautiful and strange and just ours. Sophie, Carlo and me; we found this balance. This rhythm.” I peer down at my hands. “And I guess . . . I stopped checking in with the part of me that knew it couldn’t last.”
I laugh, but it’s hollow.
“I thought I was in control. I told myself I was giving everyone what they needed. That no one was hurting. But then . . .” I exhale sharply through my nose. “Then I wasn’t looking. Not properly.”
I pause, eyes darting toward hers.
“Something shifted. And I missed it.”
She narrows her eyes, easily picking up on my distress.
“What happened?”
“Sophie . . .”
I could hear my heart pounding in my ears.
“Sophie got pregnant.”
The doctor exhaled.
“Who was the father?”
My heart stopped in my chest. It had never occurred to me that I might not be the father.
“Me,” I choked out the word defensively as she peered at me.
“So, you’re a daddy. Congratulations.”
She replied before scribbling a few more notes on her pad.
The doctor had a tone in her voice I didn’t like. The pinched nature grated on my nerves, prodding at it as if she were trying to convey some vital piece of information that I couldn’t determine.
“In what ways did Sophie’s pregnancy—and later, becoming a father—affect the dynamic between the three of you?”
I laughed humorlessly.
“Before I answer that, you need to understand. I adore my daughter and my wife. My wife is the best mother I’ve ever seen.”
The doctor nodded, noting her thoughts.
“But if someone had thrown in a hand grenade, it would have created less devastation.”
I slump back in my uncomfortable chair, remembering the night Sophie announced her pregnancy.
The night that shattered my perfect world, rupturing my relationship with Carlo and shaking up every fragment of shame and self-loathing. Creating the monster I’ve become today.
Every year since Chess’ death, Carlo and I escaped for a week to the island, in the Bay of Naples, where he’d bought a beach house in memory of his girl. He claimed that being there made him feel closer to her—and without me, he feared he’d never leave.
That weekend was unforgettable. Carlo had even found an architect to design and oversee the construction of a new home right on the beach. We spent hours poring over ideas and reminiscing about a past that seemed both distant and achingly familiar.
By the time I returned home, I was buzzing to see Sophie. The trip had stirred something in me. Until then, we’d still been living in Carlo’s apartment, and those conversations made me start to picture a place of our own—something just for us.
I’d barely put my bag down before she announced her news.
She looked so nervous. Sophie has a habit of chewing on her bottom lip when she’s uncertain or thinking hard. That day she chewed it so hard I was surprised not to see blood.
“You’re pregnant?” I questioned her, a smile ripping across my face.
Her eyes were full of confusion and concern, but I’d never heard better news. We’d discussed starting a family. We were both aware we wanted children one day, though neither of us thought about it happening so soon.
I was a couple of months away from my twenty-seventh birthday. For parents, we weren’t young, but we’d been so busy building our careers and having fun, we hadn’t factored in children just yet.
I cradled her on my lap. She appeared small and vulnerable; I suspected she was struggling to come to terms with the news. Both of our lives were about to take a massive turn, but it was Sophie who would be most affected.
“How are you? You look a little pale. Should you be in bed?” I fussed over her.
“No, I’m fine. It’s just a little morning sickness.”
She buried her face in my neck as she often did. I found the gesture just as soothing as I suspect she did.
“When is our baby due?” I asked excitedly.
My mind raced with plans for the future. Having been considering a house move all the way back from Carlo’s place, I decided it was a must now. A child should have a garden. Somewhere he or she could play.
“We’ll have a more definitive date after my scan, but Dr. Townsend’s best guess was mid-May.”
I squeezed her tighter, holding her in a way I hoped she’d find protective and loving, but she seemed distant.
“When will you give up work?”
That question seemed to detonate something in her mind. She loved her career, and her reaction to such a simple question was totally unreasonable.
Sophie pushed herself back, glaring into my face.
“What do you mean?” she spat out the words.
Her response immediately annoyed me. A woman in my office had left to have a baby the year before; she was totally irrational before she left—it was actually a bit of a relief when she finally took maternity leave.
My assistant, Maggie, blamed her hormones, and I assumed the same was true of Sophie.
So, I dropped my voice, trying to keep my tone calm.
“Well, you can’t work forever, can you? It’s ridiculous to put your body through unnecessary stress, especially when we don’t need the money. Your health and our baby are far more important.”
I laid a gentle hand on her stomach. I assumed she’d interpret my words as loving, as I intended; I was trying to look after her and our child.
“Spencer, I’m not giving up my career.”
My hackles rose instantly. I worked hard not to lose control, but my grip was ebbing away.
“Sweetheart, I’m not allowing my child to go through the upbringing I did.”
The tone of my voice was gentle, but the punch of each word was determined.
She flopped her head onto my chest.
My opinion might be old-fashioned, totally sexist. But after the experience I’d endured, this wasn’t a negotiation I was willing to have.
What happened next will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Pushing away from me, she stood up, as if I were scolding her. I reluctantly released her, sensing her rage.
“So let me get this straight . . .” she snapped, her voice rising with disbelief, then dipping low, cold with scorn.
“It’s fine for your child’s mother to be a whore, and its father to be a walking disaster of indecision—too spineless to choose between men or women, so you fuck whoever gives you attention and call it liberation.
But God forbid I want something stable. Something normal for our child to spend a few safe hours with someone qualified, while I—who, let’s be honest, is the only adult in this circus—continues with my career. ”
She lets the silence stretch, then added, “You don’t want a partner. You want permission. Permission to fall apart. And I’m done giving it.”
Her words slapped. Hard.
The moment she said them; she couldn’t take them back no matter how she tried.
“I’m sorry. That was unforgiveable; I didn’t mean it.”
She rushed toward me, gripping hold of my hand. I stared at my hand clasped in hers.
But the noise in my head was deafening.
Her assessment of me was spot on.
After several minutes of sitting in stunned silence, listening to her plethora of excuses and apologizing in every way possible, I needed to get away. I couldn’t have stayed in that room for anything.
“Spencer, talk to me,” she begged.
Slowly, so slowly, it was painful; I met her gaze.
“I think you’ve said everything that needed saying.” I withdrew my hand from hers and stood up. “Excuse me, I need to take a shower.”
I assumed I’d feel better once I’d left that room; I didn’t. I haven’t ever since.
Later that afternoon, once I’d made sure she had everything she needed. I made a lame excuse about work and left Sophie in the apartment, explaining I might not return that night.
I didn’t tell Carlo straightaway. I needed time, time to sort through the mess in my head. Normally, we speak every day. Sometimes more than once. That silence alone should’ve told him something was wrong.
When I finally told him, it shattered him. Shattered us.
Sophie’s spent the last three years apologizing, which only makes me feel like more of a twat. And maybe I am.
Because the problem wasn’t really what she said—though yeah, that fucking hurt. The problem was what it triggered.
Her words lit the match, but I struck the fuse. I ended things with Carlo—not because she asked me to, but because I couldn’t live with the shame I still carried about my sexuality. I couldn’t look at myself. I couldn’t bear the mirror or the intensity of emotions he evoked in me.
Sophie’s told me again and again that she never meant it. That she loved what we had, the three of us, and never wanted my physical relationship with Carlo to stop. But things have changed. I changed.
I still see him often. But I keep my distance from him physically now whenever I’m able. The problem is nothing’s ever come close to the high I felt with him and Sophie. That life was addictive. It still haunts me.
After Sophie’s outburst, I stepped away from the club scene—temporarily. But with Sophie’s permission about a year later, I went back.
She isn’t aware that I invested in a club with Travis.
Or that there’s a girl there who lets me dominate her.
I don’t fuck her often—it’s not about that.
It’s about control. About pushing limits.
She lights something up inside me. It’s not the same as the feeling I get from Carlo . . . but it’s the closest I’ve come.
So when I experience the pull toward Carlo—when I miss him so badly it makes me ache—I see Kalie instead.
And for a little while . . . the noise fades.
Dr. Klein is quiet. She doesn’t reach for her pen. She just watches me.
Then, softly she asks, “Is that what you want, Spencer? To make the noise fade . . . or to feel again?”
That question hits harder than I expected. I shift in my chair, uncertain what to do with my hands. My eyes sting, but I force a swallow.
“Both,” I admit, barely above a whisper. “I want to stop hurting. But I also want back what we had . . . or at least, what mattered in it.”
She nods slowly, as if she’s been waiting for me to say that.
“You’ve described Sophie as your anchor. The one person who sees all your sharp edges and stays anyway. And yet, so much of your energy goes toward escaping—not just the shame, but the vulnerability of being fully known.”
She leans forward a little, voice still calm.
“Have you let Sophie see the parts of you that you’ve brought here?”
I shake my head. The answer is obvious.
“Then maybe it’s not about earning forgiveness or recreating what was. Maybe it’s about letting her see you now—really see you—and trusting she still might choose you.”
I nod slowly because that’s what terrifies me most.
Dr. Klein glances at the clock, then offers me a softer smile.
“We’re almost out of time. But I’d like you to think about one thing between now and next week.”
She pauses, letting the words settle before continuing.
“You’ve carried a lot of guilt. And shame. But love . . . real love, has room for both truth and imperfection. It’s not clean or easy. It just asks that you keep choosing it.”
I’m quiet. She doesn’t press.
“When you get home, don’t fix anything. Don’t make promises. Just . . . tell Sophie the truth. Tell her you still love her. And then let her decide how to stand with you.”