Chapter 33 Rhea
THIRTY-THREE
RHEA
That night was a blur of emotion and confusion.
When I first opened the door, I thought maybe it was just a delivery—something forgotten from a late-night scroll.
But it wasn’t a box. It was him.
Spencer.
There he was, standing in the rain like a scene from a movie, except this was real. He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t apologize for the timing. He just… stepped inside. Like he belonged here.
He didn’t flinch at the clutter, didn’t glance twice at the pile of laundry on the couch, or the toys underfoot. He didn’t turn his nose up at my messy, imperfect life.
He just blended in. Effortlessly.
He was warm with Esme—playful, patient, present. Watching the two of them together was almost unbearable. They were so beautiful. So right. I could hardly look at them without my chest tightening.
He doesn’t just tolerate the frozen pizza and cheap beer. He tastes it. He makes it feel like it’s exactly what he wanted.
And later, when Esme was tucked in and the house had gone quiet, he kissed me again. With reverence. With heat. With everything I remember—and everything I know I don’t deserve.
Like he wanted to give himself to me again. Completely.
And just when I was about to let him—when I was ready to give in to the gravity between us—the braver part of me refused to stay silent.
“Stop.”
The word was out of my mouth before I even knew what it meant.
And suddenly I was saying it. All of it.
“Spencer… Esme is yours. You’re her father.”
His face changed instantly—like a curtain being torn down. Confusion. Anger. Shock. Fear. Disappointment. Betrayal. It’s all there, clashing at once, written across every line of him.
He was pacing the living room like a caged animal, his voice rising fast, wild, impossible to contain.
“How could you not tell me?”
“What right did you have to keep this from me?”
“You didn’t trust me?”
“I didn’t have a family! You made them up in your head from one stupid photo—one photo!”
And again. “You had no right.”
His voice cracks on those last words, raw and ragged.
“What the fuck!” he shouts, running his hands through his hair, turning toward the door, then back again. “I can’t—I can’t be here right now.”
“I didn’t know what was the right thing to do,” I say softly.
“You sure as hell didn’t.” He agrees.
“I tried to reach out—I wanted you to know.”
But he isn’t listening. Or maybe he can’t.
“I need air,” he snaps.
Then,, “And I need a paternity test. You’ll hear from my attorney—one way or another.”
Then quieter. Colder. “And if she is mine…”
But he doesn’t finish. He just turns and walks out, the door slamming behind him.
Not ten seconds later, I hear it—Esme’s cry drifting from the back bedroom. Sharp. Startled. Like she’s felt the rip in the air.
I stand in the middle of the living room, stunned. Hollow.
But really?
What did I expect?
The rest of the weekend passes in fragments. I go through the motions—laundry, dishes, scrambled eggs, storybooks—but inside I’m shattered.
I text him. Repeatedly.
Spencer, I’m so sorry.
I just need you to understand. I thought you were married.
I was trying to protect everyone—you, Esme, myself.
A few hours later, I try again.
I did try to reach out. Right after I found out. I texted. I said it was important. I asked you to call me.
Finally, late Sunday night, he replies.
The wedding weekend? The trip to France?
I respond, fingers trembling.
I was caught off guard. Scared. I didn’t know how to tell you.
His reply comes fast.
But not too scared to sleep with me again.
That cuts deep. I shoot back:
You told me you have whole schemes to protect yourself from women like me. You literally hire actors to pretend to date you. What was I supposed to think?
His reply is cold.
There’s a reason for that.
And that’s it. I lose it.
Fuck you. And fuck your fucking paternity test. We don’t need a damned thing from you.
It’s barely 9:00 a.m. on Monday when Penny from the front desk pokes her head into my office.
“Hey, Rhea? There’s someone here for you. From the post office. Says he needs a signature?”
I blink up from my laptop, I know it’s not good. “A signature?”
“Certified mail,” she says, like it’s no big deal. “Want me to send him in?”
“Sure,” I manage, though my stomach’s already turning.
Moments later, a man in a USPS uniform steps through the door holding a clipboard and a white envelope stamped Certified Mail – Signature Required in red.
“Ms. Rhea Sinclair?”
“Yes.”
“Need your signature here.”
I scribble my name with a hand that suddenly doesn’t feel like it belongs to me. He hands over the envelope without a word and walks out.
The return address on the top left corner stops my heart cold:
Willoughby, Kane & Trent LLP
Family Law Division
I sit down, slowly, and tear it open with shaking fingers. The paper inside is thick, stiff, expensive. It smells like toner and threat.
The letterhead is embossed. Every word is sharp. Precise. Measured.
“Please be advised that our client, Mr. Spencer Devereaux, is formally requesting chain-of-custody paternity testing for the minor child, Esme Sinclair. Testing must be conducted at a certified facility. The presence of a neutral third-party witness may be required to verify the source of the DNA sample.”
My throat tightens.
“Failure to comply within seven (7) business days from date of receipt may result in the filing of a motion to compel testing and evaluate custodial rights.”
And finally:
“Do not contact Mr. Devereaux directly. All communication must be routed through this office.”
That last line feels like a slap. He won’t even talk to me.
I press the letter flat against my desk with both hands like I can smother it. My palms are damp. My chest aches.
Across the library, I hear Penny still chatting at the front desk, totally unaware that the bottom has just fallen out of my life.
I slide the letter into my computer bag and zip it closed. As if I can bury everything it threatens to unearth.
But I can’t unread it. And I can’t forget his words.
“And if she is mine…”
The sentence never ended. But now I can’t stop filling in the blanks.
I’m coming for her. I’ll take her. I’ll make you pay.
What if I’ve just started a war I can’t win?