Chapter 8
GUNTHER
The world stops.
Cecie stares at me. Orry babbles between us. And I just confessed the stupidest, most reckless truth of my life.
"You're Ridge."
Not a question. An accusation.
"I—" My throat closes. "Yes."
She yanks Orry away from me. Steps back. Her face cycles through shock, anger, disbelief, then lands somewhere between fury and tears.
"The sunglasses. The leather jacket. The tattoos." Each word sharper than the last. "That was you?"
"I didn't mean—"
"You lied to me."
"I didn't know!" The words explode out. "I didn't know about Orry. I didn't know you were pregnant. I woke up and you were gone."
"Because I left." She clutches Orry tighter. "Because I was embarrassed and confused and I thought—" She stops. Breathes. "You're the spreadsheet guy. The pocket protector. The glasses."
"I took them off that night."
"Obviously." Her laugh sounds broken. "Ridge. God, I can't believe I fell for Ridge."
The word fell does something terrible to my chest.
"Cecie—"
"Get out."
"Please, just let me—"
"Out." She points to the door. "Now."
I should argue. Should explain. Should beg for a chance to make this right.
But Orry's watching me with those crystal eyes and Cecie's hand shakes where she grips him and I realize: I'm the crisis. The variable that doesn't fit. The error in her carefully balanced equation.
So I leave.
The office is torture.
Colum talks about plaza foot traffic and tenant satisfaction scores and upcoming community events. I nod. Take notes. Pretend my life isn't imploding.
"You listening?"
"Hmm?"
Colum leans back in his ridiculous ergonomic chair. Studies me with that unsettling perception he usually saves for investment pitches.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Gunther."
"It's personal."
"Ah." He grins. "Cecie, right? I saw you two chatting. Thought there might be—"
"Stop." I close my laptop harder than necessary. "Please. Just stop."
His grin fades. "Okay. Seriously. What happened?"
I could lie. Should lie. But Colum's been my friend since I started here and right now I need someone who understands the ethical nightmare I'm standing in.
"If an employee. Hypothetically." My hands won't stay still. I fold them. Unfold them. Grip the desk. "If an employee had a personal relationship with a tenant. And there was a potential conflict of interest. How would you. What would the appropriate—"
"Did you sleep with Cecie?" Colum's eyebrows shoot up. "Because honestly, good for you, but yeah, that's. Hm. That's a thing."
"It's not like that."
"Then what's it like?"
My fingers rest on my keyboard. At the spreadsheet still open on my screen showing plaza revenue projections and tenant contract renewals and all the professional, logical, safe data that makes sense.
Unlike fatherhood. Unlike waking up one morning and discovering you have a son.
"I slept with her a year ago." The admission scrapes out. "Before she was a tenant. Before I knew who she was. I was. I wasn't myself."
Colum goes very still. "Ridge."
My stomach drops. "You knew?"
"I suspected." He leans forward. "The henna was terrible, by the way. And you left your glasses on my desk that night. I put two and two together." A pause. "But you're saying Cecie is—"
"The woman from that night. Yes."
"And she didn't recognize you?"
"I looked different. Sounded different. I was trying to be different." I scrub my face. "She called herself Sis that night. I thought. I didn't realize Cecie was short for. It doesn't matter. Point is, she has no idea Ridge and Gunther are the same person."
"Had." Colum's voice gentles. "Past tense. Because you told her."
"This morning."
"How'd she take it?"
"Kicked me out."
"Yeah." He winces. "That tracks."
I pull off my glasses. Polish them even though they're already clean. My hands need something to do or they'll shake.
"There's more."
"More than impersonating a bad-boy orc and accidentally seducing a future tenant?"
"Orry." My voice cracks on the name. "Her son. He's. The timeline matches. And he has my dimple. My eyes. My—" I can't finish.
Colum goes pale. Stands. Walks to his ridiculous mug collection and just stares at it for a long moment.
Then: "You're a father."
"Maybe."
"Gunther—"
"I don't know." The frustration boils over. "She won't talk to me. And even if she did, what am I supposed to say? Hey, remember that one night stand you clearly regret? Surprise, it's me, your landlord's financial analyst. Let's coparent."
"Well. Maybe not in those exact words."
I laugh. It sounds unhinged.
Colum returns to his desk. Sits. Steeples his fingers in that way that means he's shifting from friend mode to business mode.
"Okay. Let's logic this out."
"There's no logic to this."
"There's always logic." He pulls out a notepad. Actually writes Gunther's Situation at the top. "First: are you sure Orry's yours?"
"No. Maybe. Probably." I grip my hair. "He has my dimple, Colum. The exact same dimple. Right side. And those eyes. Crystal eyes are rare even among orcs. My grandmother had them. My mother. Me. And now—"
"Okay. So probable paternity." He makes a note. "Second: do you want to be a father?"
The question stops me cold.
Want. Do I want this?
I think of Orry's tiny hand wrapped around my finger. His babbled "duh." The way he smiled at me like he knew something I didn't.
Duh. Short for dada from a seven month old. Somehow, my son knows me.
"Yes." The word comes out quiet. Sure. "I want to know him. I want. God, I want to be there. For both of them."
"Then we need a plan."
"A plan." I blink up at him. "Colum, this isn't a business acquisition."
"Every problem has a solution." He taps his pen against the notepad. "Step one: confirm paternity. You need to know for sure before you do anything else. That means talking to Cecie. Apologizing. Explaining. And asking for a DNA test."
My stomach churns. "She'll think I don't trust her."
"Or she'll think you're being responsible." His expression softens. "Look, this is scary. For both of you. But you can't build anything on assumptions. You need facts."
Facts. Data. Measurable, verifiable truth. I can work with that.
"Okay. Paternity test. Then what?"
"Then you figure out what kind of father you want to be." Colum's voice goes serious. "Because this isn't about spreadsheets or reputation or what looks good professionally. This is about a kid who deserves to know his dad. And a woman who deserves honesty."
Honesty. Right. "What about the conflict of interest? If Orry's mine, that makes Cecie—"
"The mother of your child and a tenant." Colum grimaces. "Yeah. That's sticky. Ethically we should recuse you from anything involving her lease. I'll handle her contract renewals going forward. Keep it clean."
"She'll think I'm avoiding her."
"You'll explain." He meets my eyes. "Transparent communication, Gunther. It's the only way through this."
Transparent. Like confessing I spent a year fantasizing about a mystery woman who turned out to be real and sitting twenty feet away in the plaza and raising my possible son alone for eighteen months.
"I'm terrified." The admission slips out.
"Good." Colum grins. "Means you care. Now go home. Get some sleep. Tomorrow you apologize to Cecie and ask for that test. And Gunther?"
"Yeah?"
"Stop catastrophizing. You're good at your job. You'll be good at this too."
I wish I believed him.
Home is a small apartment with too many books and a kitchen I barely use. I make tea. Sit at my table. Glance at the wall.
Then I open my laptop.
How to tell someone you might be their child's father.
The search results are useless. Custody law. Paternity fraud. Reddit threads full of disaster stories.
I close the laptop. Try again with pen and paper.
Dear Cecie,
I'm sorry for lying. I didn't mean to deceive you. Ridge was a mistake. A persona I adopted for one night because I wanted to be someone different. Someone bold and careless and free.
But I'm not that person. I'm Gunther. I wear pocket protectors and color-code my calendar and collect vintage calculators. I'm boring and anxious and I overthink everything.
And I think I might be Orry's father.
I crumple the paper. Start over.
Cecie,
I know you're angry. You have every right to be. I should have told you the truth immediately. But I was scared. Scared of your reaction. Scared of what it meant. Scared of everything changing.
But it already changed. The moment I saw Orry's dimple. The moment he grabbed my finger. The moment I realized that one reckless night created something precious.
I want to know him. I want to be there. Please give me a chance.
Better. Still terrible, but better.
I fold the letter. Set it aside.
Then I open a new document and do what I always do when emotions overwhelm me: I make a spreadsheet.
Paternity Logistics
Column A: Action Items
Apologize to Cecie
Request paternity test
Research parenting resources
Budget for child support
Recuse from tenant contract management
Column B: Timeline
Apology: ASAP
Test: Within one week
Results: Two weeks
Legal consultation: As needed
Column C: Emotional Preparation
This column stays blank. Because how do you prepare for fatherhood? For the possibility of holding your son and knowing he's yours?
I close the laptop. Lean back. Stare at the ceiling.
Clarence sits on my desk. The cracked calculator I've carried since university. I pick it up. Run my thumb over the broken screen.
"What would you do?" I ask the empty room.
Clarence doesn't answer. Obviously.
But somewhere, underneath the fear and the spreadsheets and the desperate need for control, something whispers: You already know.
Go to her. Tell the truth. Ask for a chance. Be the father Orry deserves. Even if you have no idea how. I set Clarence down. Pick up the letter. Read it one more time. Then I fold it carefully and tuck it in my jacket pocket.
Sleep doesn't come. I lie in bed watching the ceiling fan spin, counting rotations like sheep that refuse to jump.