Chapter 20 Daniel
Daniel
Iwake to silence.
Complete, suffocating silence.
For a moment, I forget. Then reality crashes down: Bailey is gone. I destroyed her. I chose this.
The bed beside me is cold, perfectly made. She hasn't been here in days. Her toothbrush is gone from the bathroom. Her drawer—the one I’d cleared for her clothes—sits empty.
I tell myself this is what I wanted. Control restored. Company saved. Safety secured.
The words are lies.
I go through my morning routine on autopilot. Shower. Suit. Coffee I don't taste. The penthouse feels like a mausoleum, full of ghosts I can't escape.
Her sweater is still draped over the chair in the living room. I can't bring myself to touch it.
This was necessary. I protected her. I did the right thing.
The mantra rings hollow.
***
The office is worse.
Everyone congratulates me for "handling the situation." Maxwell claps me on the shoulder in the hallway. "Good work, Daniel. That relationship was becoming a liability."
The word makes me flinch.
"Glad you came to your senses," he continues. "Can't let personal entanglements destroy what we've built."
I nod. Say something that sounds like agreement. Walk away before he can see my hands shaking.
In my office, I try to work. Try to focus on the Larsson deal, on the quarterly projections, on anything that isn't Bailey's face when I called her a liability.
My phone buzzes. Lottie's name flashes across the screen.
"The investors are already calming down," she says when I answer. "Patricia called this morning. Said she's impressed you made the tough call."
"Great."
"Daniel, are you—"
"I'm fine. Just busy."
Silence on her end. Then: "Okay. But if you need anything—"
I hang up before she can finish.
Through the glass walls of my office, I can see Bailey's old desk being cleared out. Maintenance workers packing up her things. Her designs, her sketches, her coffee mug with the chipped handle she refused to replace.
I watch them throw it all into boxes.
One of them pulls something from her cubicle wall—a sketch pinned there. The paper girl. Her animation character.
He tosses it toward the recycling bin. It misses, lands on the floor.
No one picks it up.
***
By evening, everyone has gone home. I'm still at my desk, staring at the same email I've been trying to write for three hours.
My assistant knocked earlier, asked if I was okay. I snapped at her for a typo in a report. She left quickly, eyes wide.
I've become someone people are afraid of. Someone who destroys things.
My father.
The thought makes me physically ill.
I need air. Need to move. Need to get out of this office that still smells faintly like her perfume.
The supply room is on my way to the elevator. I pass it, then stop. Something makes me backtrack.
The lights are off. I flip them on, scan the shelves for—I don't even know what.
Then I see it.
On the floor, partially hidden under a shelf. Bailey's sketch. The paper girl, wind-torn and brave, reaching for something just out of frame.
I pick it up with shaking hands. It's crumpled, stained with coffee someone spilled. Ruined.
She showed me this in a rare quiet moment between meetings. Shy, vulnerable, hopeful. "This is what I want to do someday. Animation. Real art."
I'd told her it was beautiful. Meant it.
Now it's in the trash because I fired her.
My legs give out. I sink to the floor of the supply room, back against the cold wall, sketch clutched in my hands.
What have I done?
The question echoes in the silence. No answer comes.
I sit there—I don't know how long. Minutes. Hours. Time loses meaning when you're sitting in a supply room holding the shattered dreams of the woman you destroyed.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it. It buzzes again. And again.
Finally, I look.
Three missed calls from an unknown number. One voicemail.
I almost delete it without listening. But something makes me press play.
A woman's voice, clipped and furious: "This is Gretchen Park. Bailey's friend. I'll be in your building lobby at 10 PM. If you're not a complete coward, you'll meet me there."
The message ends.
I check the time: 9:47 PM.
***
Gretchen is waiting exactly where she said she'd be.
She's small but fierce, arms crossed, eyes burning with the kind of rage that would make most men run. When she sees me, her expression hardens into something colder.
"Gretchen—"
"Shut up." She doesn't raise her voice. Doesn't need to. "You don't get to talk yet."
I close my mouth.
"Do you know what you did?" She takes a step toward me. "Do you have any idea?"
"I ended the relationship. I—"
"You fired a pregnant woman."
The world stops.
"What?"
"Bailey came to your penthouse to tell you she's pregnant." Her voice is deadly calm. "She had this whole speech prepared. She was scared but also hopeful because she thought—stupidly—that you might actually care."
No. No, she would have told me. She would have—
"But you didn't let her finish, did you?" Gretchen continues. "You cut her off. Called her a liability. Fired her while she was carrying your child."
The floor tilts beneath me.
"She tried to tell me—" I can barely form words. "I didn't know—"
"You didn't know because you wouldn't listen." She moves closer. "You were too busy destroying her to hear what she was actually saying."
Bailey was pregnant. She came to tell me. And I—
I called her a liability.
"Congratulations," Gretchen says. "You became your father after all."
She walks away, leaving me standing in the empty lobby.
Her words echo in the silence.
You became your father after all.
***
I make it to my car before I break.
My hands shake so badly I can't get the key in the ignition. I grip the steering wheel instead, trying to breathe through the panic crushing my chest.
Bailey was pregnant. She tried to tell me.
And I wouldn’t listen.
The flashbacks come unbidden. My father's voice, cold and cruel: "You're worthless. You'll never be enough." His face when my mother tried to leave. The way he pushed her away, hurt her, controlled her until there was nothing left.
I hear my own voice now, layered over the memory: "You became a liability."
I pushed Bailey away. Hurt her. Controlled the situation until I destroyed everything good between us.
Just like he did.
The realization breaks something fundamental inside me. I'm crying—actually crying—for the first time since I was thirteen years old. Gasping, ugly sobs that tear out of my chest.
I didn't protect Bailey from my father's legacy.
I became it.
She was pregnant, vulnerable, trying to tell me something important. And I cut her off. Fired her. Ensured she'd hate me so I'd never have to face my fear of becoming my father.
By doing exactly what he would have done.
The irony would be funny if it wasn't ripping me apart.
I don't know how long I sit here. Eventually, the tears stop. The panic fades to a dull, throbbing ache.
I need to see her. Need to apologize. Need to—
What? Fix this? There's no fixing this.
But I have to try.
I start the car. Drive to her apartment on muscle memory. Park outside, engine still running.
What am I going to say? I'm sorry I called you a liability while you were pregnant with my child? I'm sorry I destroyed your career and your life? I'm sorry I became exactly what I was terrified of becoming?
None of it is enough.
But I'm here. And I have to try.
I kill the engine. Walk to her building. Ring her buzzer.
No answer.
I ring again. And again.
Finally, the intercom crackles. "Daniel?"
Bailey's voice. I haven't heard it in days and it hits me like a gut punch.
"Bailey, I need to talk to you. Please. I know about—"
"Go away."
"I know about the baby. I'm so sorry. I was wrong about everything—"
"I said go away."
The intercom goes silent.
I stand there, finger hovering over the buzzer. Press it again.
This time, footsteps. The building door opens.
Bailey stands in the doorway, and she looks different. Exhausted. Older. There are dark circles under her eyes, and her face has that particular hollowness that comes from not sleeping, not eating, barely surviving.
"Bailey—"
"You need to leave."
Her voice is calm. Too calm. I expected yelling, tears, something. This cold composure is infinitely worse.
"Please, just let me explain. I was scared and I panicked and—"
"I know why you did it, Daniel."
The calmness in her voice makes my blood run cold.
"Then you understand—"
"I understand that you're broken. That you've been broken for a long time. That fear controls you more than any board member ever could."
"I can fix this," I say desperately. "Let me fix this—"
"You can't fix this." She crosses her arms. "You called me a liability while I was trying to tell you I'm carrying your child. You fired me, destroyed my career, my reputation, my ability to support myself. You can't fix that with an apology."
"Tell me what to do. I'll do anything."
"That's the problem. You think there's a quick fix. There isn't."
"Bailey, please—"
"Why did you do it?" She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a particularly interesting specimen. "Really. Not the board, not the company. Why did you want to destroy me?"
"I was scared—"
"Of what?"
I open my mouth. Close it. The truth catches in my throat.
I don't know. I don't actually know why I'm this broken.
"That's what I thought." She steps back into the building. "Figure out WHY you did this. Then maybe—maybe—we'll talk."
"But Bailey, the baby—"
"Is MY responsibility now. You made that choice when you fired me."
The door starts to close.
"Bailey, wait—"
“And don’t try coming back, I won’t be here.”
The lock clicks. Final and definitive.
I stand there in the hallway, exactly where she stood in my penthouse four days ago. The symmetry isn't lost on me.
I destroyed her. Now I'm the one broken.
My phone is in my hand before I realize I'm reaching for it. I pull up her contact, thumb hovering over call.
She told me to figure out why. Until I understand the root of my self-sabotage, nothing I say will matter.
She's right.
I lower the phone. Turn away from her building. Walk back to my car.
The drive home is a blur. The penthouse is still silent, still empty. Her sweater is still on the chair.
I sink onto the couch, staring at nothing.
Bailey is pregnant with my child. She's got no job, terrified and alone, trying to survive what I did to her.
And I can't fix it with apologies or explanations or grand gestures.
I have to fix myself first.
The thought terrifies me.
Because I don't know if I can.