Chapter 23 Nolan
Ellie’s call comes while I’m elbow-deep in dishwater.
I dry my hands on my apron and duck into the stockroom, pressing the phone to my ear. “Hey. Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. Better than fine, actually.” There’s something in her voice I can’t quite place. Careful. Measured. Like she’s choosing her words with unusual precision. “I need to tell you something, and I need you to not freak out.”
My heart rate spikes immediately. “That’s literally the worst way to start a conversation.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Just—sit down, okay?”
I lower myself onto a crate of bar supplies, my free hand pressing against the swell of my stomach. I’m showing now—a gentle curve that I can almost hide under loose shirts but that feels enormous to me every time I catch my reflection.
“I’m sitting. What’s going on?”
“Erik gave me something to give to you.” She pauses. “A check. Nolan, it’s... it’s a lot of money.”
The world tilts slightly. “What? Why?”
“He called it a down payment. On what he owes you for your research.” Another pause. “Have you seen the news? The press release?”
“What press release?”
“Nolan.” Ellie’s voice is gentle but insistent. “You need to look this up. Nilsson Industries put out a statement yesterday. They’re suing Alistair Wallace. For fraud. For stealing research. They named you specifically—said they’re going to make full reparations to everyone affected.”
I can’t process what she’s saying. The words are hitting my ears but they’re not making sense.
“That’s—no. That doesn’t—” I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “There is no way that Erik Nilsson is ever going to give in on this. He’s a proud son of a bitch.”
“Apparently not.” Ellie cuts me off. “It’s all over the news.”
My hand is shaking. I press it harder against my stomach, trying to ground myself.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper.
“I know. I didn’t either, at first.” Ellie’s voice softens. “He’s been coming to see me, Nolan. For weeks now. At first I thought he was just trying to find you, but... I don’t think that’s all it is. I think he actually cares. About me. About you. About—” She stops.
“About what?”
“He knows about the baby.”
The stockroom goes very quiet. I can hear my own heartbeat, too fast, too loud.
“How?”
“I told him.” Before I can react, she rushes on. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want him to know. But he already suspected and I just... I couldn’t lie to his face. Not when he was sitting there looking like his whole world had ended.”
“Ellie—”
“He’s not going to take the baby.” Her voice is firm now, certain.
“He told me. He said he doesn’t care what the contract says, he’ll have the custody clause struck, he’ll sign whatever you need.
He said—” She takes a breath. “He said he just wants a chance. To be there. To be part of things. And if you need him to stay away, he will. But he wanted you to know that he loves you. That he never stopped.”
I can’t breathe.
“I need to go,” I manage.
“Nolan—”
“I’ll call you back. I just—I need to think.”
I hang up before she can respond.
I don’t go back to the dishes.
Instead I find my manager and tell him I need to leave early, family emergency. He takes one look at my face and waves me off without questions.
The walk home is a blur. I’m barely aware of the rain misting against my face, the familiar streets passing under my feet. All I can think about is what Ellie said.
Erik believes me.
Erik loves me.
I get back to the house and go straight to my room, pulling out my laptop with shaking hands. It takes three tries to type the search correctly.
The press release is everywhere.
I read it once, twice, three times. The words blur and sharpen and blur again.
Nilsson Industries regrets to announce that we were the victims of a sophisticated fraud perpetrated by Alistair Wallace.
.. Our internal investigation has revealed that the research acquired from Mr. Wallace was stolen from its rightful creator, Dr. Nolan West, along with work from at least three other researchers.
.. We apologize unreservedly to Dr. West and all affected parties, and commit to making full financial reparations. ..
Dr. Nolan West.
He used my title. I keep reading. There are articles about the lawsuit against Wallace.
Interviews with legal experts discussing the case.
Think pieces about corporate responsibility and research theft.
And everywhere, everywhere, Erik’s name—not as a villain, but as someone who was deceived and is now trying to make it right.
I find an interview from this morning. Erik, standing outside his office building, looking exhausted and determined. A reporter asks him about the financial impact of the reparations.
“The cost is irrelevant,” he says, and even through the video I can see the steel in his eyes.
“What matters is that the people who were hurt get what they’re owed.
Dr. West’s research has generated significant revenue for this company over the past four years.
Every cent of that belongs to him. I intend to make sure he receives it. ”
“And your personal relationship with Dr. West?” the reporter presses. “There are rumors that you were involved—”
“My personal life is not up for discussion.” Erik’s voice goes cold. “What I will say is that I owe Dr. West more than money. I owe him an apology that no press release can adequately convey. I believed lies about him, and I treated him accordingly. That’s something I’ll have to live with.”
The video ends. I sit there staring at the frozen frame of Erik’s face.
He looks terrible. Gaunt and tired and haunted in a way I’ve never seen before. There are shadows under his eyes and the perfect composure I’m used to seeing is cracked, something raw showing through underneath.
He looks like I felt when I left. He looks like someone whose world has collapsed and they’re just trying to survive the rubble.
Mich finds me an hour later, still sitting on my bed with my laptop open, staring at nothing.
“Hey.” She knocks on the open door frame. “I heard you left work early. Everything okay?”
I should say yes. I should put on the mask I’ve been wearing for weeks and tell her I’m fine, just tired, just pregnant and emotional.
Instead I burst into tears.
Mich doesn’t hesitate. She crosses the room and sits down beside me, pulling me into a hug without asking questions. She just holds me while I sob—ugly, heaving sobs that shake my whole body—and doesn’t say a word.
That night, I lie awake and think about what I actually want.
Not what’s safe. Not what’s smart. Just... what I want.
I want my baby to know their father. Not just as a name on a check or a face in photographs, but as a real presence in their life.
I want the financial security that Erik’s reparations would provide. Not because I need his money, but because that money is mine. I earned it. Years of my life went into that research, and I deserve to benefit from it.
I want to stop running. I’m so tired of running.
And underneath all of that, buried deep where I’ve been trying to pretend it doesn’t exist—
I want Erik.
I want his arms around me in the dark. I want his voice in my ear, low and rough, telling me I’m his. By god, I want him inside me.
Even more than that, I want to trust him again. That’s the hardest one. Because trust, once broken, doesn’t just come back.
But maybe I don’t have to decide everything right now.
If Erik really means what he says, he can wait. He can prove it and if he can’t do that—if he gives up, or gets impatient, or decides I’m not worth the effort—then I’ll have my answer.
I pick up my phone and type a message to Ellie.
Tell him I got his message. Tell him I need time to think. Tell him... tell him I’m not ready to talk yet.
I stare at the words for a long moment. Then I add:
And tell him the baby is healthy. Strong heartbeat. Everything looks good.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself.
It’s not forgiveness. It’s not even an opening, really. I put my hand on my stomach, where our baby is growing, and close my eyes.
Erik can’t U-turn on this, not with the press release and the way it has hit the media. For all his faults, he’s not stupid and he’ll have known exactly what it would cost him to do this. He’ll know I have an ironclad claim against his company now. Hell, he handed it to me on a silver platter.
I just don’t know if that’s enough. “Do you think that’s enough?” I whisper to the curve of my belly.
The baby doesn’t answer, of course. But I feel a flutter—the first one I’ve felt.
I fall asleep with my hand pressed against that flutter, and for the first time in weeks, I don’t dream about running.