Chapter 22 Erik
I was wrong. About all of it.
Sara’s investigation has been thorough. Brutally, devastatingly thorough.
“This isn’t the first time,” Sara had told me yesterday, spreading documents across my desk like accusations.
“I found four other cases. Same playbook every time. He finds brilliant researchers—usually omegas, usually without strong support systems—gets close to them, gains their trust. Then he takes their work and sells it as his own.”
“How did we miss this?”
“Because he’s good at it. The other victims either couldn’t afford to fight or were too broken to try. Their cases got buried. Settlements with NDAs attached.” She’d met my eyes steadily. “Nolan was the only one who actually took it to court. And we crushed him for it.”
We. The company. My lawyers, acting on my authority. My name on the paperwork authorizing the acquisition.
And now he’s gone, and he might be carrying my child, and I have no idea where to find him.
The first place I try is his old landlady’s building.
Mrs. Kay answers the door in a housecoat, her expression souring the moment she sees me. She’s small and grey-haired and looks like she could kill a man with her bare hands if sufficiently motivated.
“You’re the alpha,” she says. Not a question.
“Yes. I’m looking for—”
“I know what you’re looking for.” She doesn’t move from the doorway, doesn’t invite me in. “He’s not here.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” Her eyes are sharp, assessing.
“That boy lived above my head for years. Paid his rent on time, never caused trouble, worked himself to the bone trying to take care of his sister. And then he came back looking like death warmed over, packed his bags, and left in the middle of the night.” She tilts her head.
I know it’s impossible but I could swear I could still pick up his scent in the building.
It’s faint now, fading, but still there if I breathe deep enough. It’s still enough to make my chest ache.
The woman folds her arms. Apparently she’s not done telling me off. “That boy looked like he was running scared, and I’ve been around long enough to know that when someone’s running, you don’t help the person chasing them.”
The words hit harder than they should. Is that what I am? The person he’s running from?
Of course it is. I looked at him like he was nothing and watched his face shatter and told myself it was justified.
Nolan’s sister is awake when I arrive at the hospital. She’s sitting up in bed, a laptop balanced on her knees, and she looks so much like him that it takes my breath away for a moment. The same green eyes. The same stubborn set to the jaw.
She looks up when I knock on the open door, and her expression goes carefully blank.
“Mr. Nilsson.”
“Erik, please.” I hover in the doorway, uncertain of my welcome. “May I come in?”
She considers this for a moment, then nods. I take the chair beside her bed—Nolan’s chair, I realize, the one he must have sat in a thousand times—and try to find the right words.
“I’m looking for your brother.”
“I figured.” She closes her laptop, sets it aside. “He’s not here.”
“I know. I just—I need to talk to him. To explain.”
“Explain what?” Her voice is sharp now, protective. “Why you threw him out like garbage after he—” She stops herself, pressing her lips together.
After he what? The question burns in my throat, but I don’t ask. I don’t have the right to ask.
“I made a mistake,” I say. “I need to make it right. Please. If you know where he is—”
“I don’t.” Her eyes meet mine, steady and unflinching. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. He left because he needed to get away from you. He doesn’t trust you and he shouldn’t.”
She’s right. I know she’s right. But the desperation clawing at my chest won’t let me accept it.
“The treatment,” I say instead. “How is it going?”
The question seems to throw her. She blinks, her defensive posture shifting slightly.
“It’s... going well. The doctors are optimistic.”
“Good. That’s good.” I clear my throat. “I wanted you to know—the coverage isn’t going to change. Whatever happens between Nolan and me, your treatment is guaranteed. For life. I’m not going to use it as leverage or threaten to take it away.”
“Gee thanks.”
I laugh. “Okay, I deserve that, but I still want to reiterate that this has not changed. In case, you were concerned.”
Ellie is quiet for a long moment, studying me with those eyes that are so much like his. “I’m not.”
I shrug. “Could you just tell him that I want to talk to him please.”
She says nothing.
I start visiting Ellie regularly.
At first it’s about finding Nolan. I tell myself I’m gathering information, looking for clues, waiting for her to slip up and reveal something useful. But the days turn into weeks, and she doesn’t slip up, and I keep coming anyway.
She’s good company, actually. Sharp and funny and absolutely merciless in her assessments of everything from hospital food to the terrible romance novels she reads to pass the time.
She reminds me of Anna in some ways—that same combination of warmth and ferocity, that refusal to take anyone’s bullshit.
I bring her things. Books she mentions wanting. Cookies from the bakery down the street that she loves. Flowers, once, which makes her laugh and call me ridiculous but she keeps them on her nightstand until they wilt.
She still won’t tell me where Nolan is and I stop asking.
Instead we talk about other things. Her treatment, which is progressing well. Her plans for when she’s discharged—she wants to go back to school, finish the degree she had to abandon when she got sick. My work, which she finds tediously corporate and doesn’t pretend otherwise.
The worst comes one day when she just turns and looks at me and says, “He really loved you,” she says finally, her voice softer. “I don’t know if he ever said it, but I could hear it. Every time he talked about you, even when he was angry, even when he was pretending he didn’t care. He loved you.”
Loved. Past tense.
“I know,” I manage. “I fucked up.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I’m going to fix it,” I say instead. “I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to fix it.”
She doesn’t look convinced. I don’t blame her.
The investigation into Alistair Wallace takes time. Building a case against a man who’s spent years perfecting the art of covering his tracks isn’t quick work.
But Sara is relentless, and she has resources now that Nolan never did.
“We’ve got him,” she tells me two months after Nolan disappeared.
She’s standing in my office with a folder thick enough to choke on, a look of grim satisfaction on her face.
“Three confirmed cases of research theft. Multiple instances of fraud. And the recording—we can prove it was fabricated. The audio forensics are airtight.”
“What does this mean legally?”
“For Wallace? Criminal charges. Fraud, theft of intellectual property, maybe more depending on what else surfaces during prosecution.” She sets the folder on my desk.
“For Nilsson Industries... we need to get ahead of this. The research we bought from him—Nolan’s research—we built products on it.
Made money from it. If this goes public without us controlling the narrative, it could be a PR nightmare. ”
“I don’t care about the PR.”
Sara blinks. “Erik—”
“Draft a press release. Announce that Nilsson Industries is filing suit against Alistair Wallace for fraud and misrepresentation. Make it clear that we were deceived along with the original researchers.” I meet her eyes.
“And include a public apology. To all the people whose work Wallace stole—including Nolan West. We’re going to make full reparations to every affected party. ”
“Full reparations?” Sara’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “Erik, do you have any idea what that will cost?”
“I don’t care what it costs.”
She stares at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nods.
“I’ll have a draft for you by tomorrow.”
After she leaves, I sit at my desk and stare at the folder.
The anger I felt toward Nolan—that cold, righteous fury—has turned completely now. It burns just as hot, but the target has changed. Alistair Wallace, who played me like a fiddle.
But I’m not just angry at Wallace. Mostly, I’m angry at myself for being so easily manipulated. That stupid recording was so obvious that Anna picked up on it the first time she listened. I should have too. I just heard it and I lost my temper.
I’m going to destroy Wallace. Not just legally—though that’s coming—but completely. By the time I’m done, every door in every industry will be closed to him. Every bridge will be burned. He’ll spend the rest of his life knowing what it feels like to have everything taken away.
It won’t be enough. Nothing will be enough. But it’s a start.
The press release goes out on a Tuesday.
By Wednesday, it’s everywhere. Business news.
Tech blogs. Even the mainstream media picks it up—billionaire CEO admits company was defrauded, promises reparations to victims. The narrative Sara crafted is working exactly as intended, painting Nilsson Industries as victims seeking justice rather than perpetrators trying to save face.
I don’t care about any of that.
What I care about is whether Nolan sees it. Whether he understands what it means. Whether he knows that I finally, finally believe him.
I go to Ellie’s hospital room that afternoon with a cashier’s check in my pocket.
She’s sitting up in bed reading when I arrive, and she looks better than I’ve ever seen her. Color in her cheeks.
“You saw the news,” she says without looking up.
“I made the news.”
Now she looks up, setting aside her book. Her expression is complicated—something between wariness and curiosity.
I cross the room and sit in the chair that’s become mine over these weeks of visiting. From my jacket pocket, I pull the check and hold it out to her.
She takes it. Looks at the number. Her eyes go wide.
“This is—Erik, this is—”
“A down payment,” I say. “On what I owe your brother. The full reparations will take time to calculate—his research generated significant revenue over the past four years, and he’s entitled to all of it plus damages. But I wanted him to have something now. Something concrete.”
Ellie stares at the check like it might bite her. “I can’t—Nolan wouldn’t—”
“It’s not charity,” I say firmly. “It’s not a gift. It’s what he’s owed. What I should have given him four years ago when he first tried to tell me the truth.” I lean forward. “Please. Give it to him. Tell him it’s the first step. Tell him—”
My voice breaks. I have to stop, take a breath, find my composure.
“Tell him I know why he doesn’t want to talk to me. I know he has every right to hate me. I’m not asking for forgiveness—I don’t deserve it. But I need him to know that I believe him. That I’m sorry. And that whatever happens between us, I’m going to make sure he gets what he’s owed.”
Ellie is quiet for a long moment, looking down at the check in her hands.
“The baby,” she says finally, her voice soft.
My heart stops. “What?”
“You know, don’t you?” She looks up at me, and there’s something like challenge in her eyes. “That’s part of why you’re doing all this. You know about the baby.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. It’s the confirmation I’ve been half-dreading, half-hoping for is right here in front of me, and I don’t know what to do with it.
“I suspected,” I manage. “I wasn’t sure.”
“He’s terrified.” Ellie’s voice is matter-of-fact, but there’s steel underneath. “Not of being a parent—he’ll be an amazing parent. He’s terrified of you. Of what you’ll do when you find out. There’s a clause in your marriage contract, isn’t there? About custody?”
The clause. The standard alpha-omega provision that gives primary custody to the alpha in case of offspring. I’d barely thought about it when Sara drafted the contract. It was just boilerplate, just legal protection.
Now I understand exactly what it means. Why Nolan ran. Why he’s so determined to stay hidden.
He thinks I’m going to take his child.
“I would never,” I say, and my voice comes out rough, broken. “Ellie, I would never do that to him. I don’t care what the contract says. That clause—I’ll have it struck. I’ll sign whatever he wants, give him whatever guarantees he needs. I’m not going to take his baby.”
“Our baby,” she corrects quietly. “It’s your baby too.”
Our baby. The words hit me like a wave, overwhelming and terrifying and somehow, impossibly, wonderful.
I’m going to be a father. Nolan is carrying my child. And I’ve spent the last two months making him believe I’m the enemy.
“Tell him,” I say, and I don’t recognize my own voice.
“Please. Tell him I know. Tell him I’m not going to fight him for custody.
Tell him—” I stop, swallow hard. “Tell him I just want a chance. To be there. To be part of this. I’ll do whatever he asks.
I’ll stay away if that’s what he needs. But please, just.. . tell him I love him.”
Ellie looks at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, she folds the check and tucks it into her book like a bookmark.
“I’ll tell him,” she says. “I can’t promise he’ll listen. But I’ll tell him.”
It’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough. But it’s all I have.
“Thank you,” I say.
I leave the hospital with my heart cracking open in my chest, terrified and hopeful in equal measure.
Somewhere out there, Nolan is building a new life without me. Growing our child. Believing I’m the monster he has every reason to think I am.
All I can do now is prove him wrong.