Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Robert
The child is mine, I feel it.
I swing again and the skipping rope slashes through the air in an incessant rhythm.
It slaps lightly against the concrete with every pass, the sound repetitive enough to try and halt everything else if I let it.
I don’t.
My body moves on instinct, my feet light, timing exact, and breath even. There’s no effort in it, no strain. It's a habit. Something to do while my mind refuses to shut up.
“…and if we route it through the second-tier accounts first, it won’t flag as quickly,” Enzo is saying somewhere behind me, his voice carrying just enough to be heard over the soft clang of metal he's lifting.
A dumbbell hits the floor, then lifts again.
“As usual, we will keep the event itself pure. We will front a charity or something believable. We’ve done it before.”
I keep skipping.
Faster now.
The rope blurs slightly at the edges of my vision, my focus narrowing to the rhythm, to the consistency of it, to the control I can maintain here even if everything else is shifting.
Because everything else is.
There’s Christine and the way she looked at me. The way she pulled away. The way she still responded to my touch.
Then, there's Blue. Her eyes. Her face. Even down to the texture of her hair.
It's not something you overlook. Not something you question once you’ve seen it clearly.
I’ve run it through every angle already.
Timing. Location. The years in between.
It doesn’t leave room for coincidence. It leaves room for one thing.
Truth.
Truth I will be getting from her today, even though she's yet to reply since Saturday night.
She'll give me what I want.
“…we’ll need at least three fronts to make it look legitimate,” Enzo continues, unbothered, his breathing stable despite the weight in his hands. “I’m thinking about hospitality, logistics, and maybe…”
The rope stops mid-air. Not because I miss a step but because he catches it.
His hand closes around it, halting the motion like he’s done with the performance.
The sudden stillness is louder than the rhythm was.
“Enzo?” I look at him, unamused.
“You’re not listening.” He looks back, one brow raised, the dumbbell still hanging at his side.
“Okay?” I shrug. “Its not the first time we're laundering money for the elite.”
“Yeah, but God is in the details.”
“Interesting metaphor.”
Enzo exhales, dropping the weight this time, letting it hit the ground with a dull thud before he straightens fully.
“Do I need to repeat everything I just said, or are we pretending this is optional?”
“I heard you… enough at least.” I flick the rope once, letting it fall loose at my feet.
“No, you didn’t,” he counters immediately. “You’ve been somewhere else for the last ten minutes.”
“Say what you need to say.” My gaze stiffens slightly.
“I should?” He studies me for a second.
“Nothing will stop you.”
“Well.” He swings a hand about. “This about the woman?”
He hit the nail straight through the brain.
I don’t respond immediately, but I don’t deny it either.
And that’s enough for him. He lets out a quiet breath, running a hand over the back of his neck before looking back at me.
“Robert.”
I meet his gaze, like nothing is out of place even though I haven't heard him say my name in over two decades.
He watches me for a second longer than necessary. Calculating.
“You’re like this because of her?” He questions, calmly this time.
“It’s about the child.” I deflate and that gets his attention.
His posture shifts slightly, the casual edge slipping into something more honed as he folds his arms across his chest.
“Alright,” he drags the word out just a fraction. “Let’s hear it.”
I bend to pick up the rope, not because I need it, but because standing still with this in my head doesn’t work.
“She’s mine.” I put it out like it's a fact. Because it is. Hopefully.
Enzo lets out a short breath through his nose, something close to a laugh but not quite.
“That fast?”
“I’ve already done the math.”
“And?” He pushes. “Math doesn’t make children, Robert.”
“I saw her.”
“That’s not evidence.” He claps back.
“It’s enough.” I bite out and he pauses.
And I know it's not about what I said, but how I said it.
He studies me again, slower this time, like he’s trying to measure how deep this goes before he decides how to respond.
“You’re serious.” He exhales, rubbing his jaw like he’s already tired of this conversation. “Okay,” he nods once. “Let’s assume for a second you’re not jumping to conclusions. You’re still missing something.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he counters, sharper now. “Because Daniel is still in the picture.”
“So?”
“He’s your nephew,” Enzo continues, like I need the reminder. “Same bloodline. Same features. It’s not far-fetched for a child to resemble you and still be his.”
“No, not like that.”
“Come on.” He lifts a brow. “You saw her for what? Five minutes?”
“The entire night.”
He shakes his head slightly, stepping closer now.
“Even though, that’s not all it takes for you to decide the child is yours.”
I go still because that's closer to the truth than I like. But not close enough.
“She is,” I clip, my voice lower now. “I know it.”
Enzo lets out a breath, pacing once like he needs to rip off the frustration before it turns into madness.
“I don't want you to get your hopes up,” he pleads with his eyes. “You want her to be… I know you miss being a father. But this…” He gestures vaguely, like the situation itself is the problem “…this might not turn out the way you're imagining.”
“It will.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” My certainty irritates him. I see the slight shift in his expression.
The moment he realizes I’m not going to walk this back, not going to entertain alternatives just to make the situation easier to digest.
“So what?” He asks finally. “You’re just going to claim a child because she has your eyes?”
“It’s not just that.”
“Then what is it?” He probes.
“She knows I'm the father.”
Enzo goes still. Not completely.
“She, as in the mother?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I told her we needed to talk about the child.”
“And?” His brows furrow.
“She went ghost mode.”
He exhales, then scoffs.
“That’s not confirmation,” he grinds out, but there’s less certainty in it now.
“It’s not denial either.”
We hold that for a second. Two. Three.
And then, footsteps coming up the terrace stairs break the tension.
Enzo’s head turns first. Mine follows a second after.
The footsteps don’t hesitate or slow down at the top of the stairs.
Soon enough, Atelia steps onto the terrace, her presence cutting through the space without needing to announce itself.
She’s already dressed for the day, composed, not a detail out of place. Two cups of something balanced in her hands, the steam curling lazily into the morning air.
Her eyes find me first. Then they drag to Enzo briefly.
“Hmm.” She dismisses him. She struts straight toward us. “Morning,” she throws, handing me one of the cups without breaking stride.
I take it, my nose crinkling at the green, slimy content.
Enzo reaches out for the other one, not even pretending to ask. But she doesn’t give it to him or even look at him.
She instead lifts it to her lips and takes a slow sip while Enzo’s hand stays suspended in the air for a second.
“You never change.” He scoffs, dropping his hand.
She lowers the cup, finally acknowledging him, one brow lifting slightly.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Fiesty.”
“Yes,” she replies simply.
“What brings you out here?”
“It’s Monday morning, I know you will be on the rooftop working out.” She shrugs, taking another sip. “So I came.”
“Typical.” Enzo lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he steps back.
“On brand,” she counters.
The exchange drops just as quickly as it started.
She turns back to me, her gaze lingering a second longer this time, not just looking but reading. Taking in what’s not being said, what’s simmering just beneath the surface.
“You left the reception early,” she starts.
“I had what I needed,” I reply, bringing the cup to my lips.
“On a Saturday night?” Her eyes narrow slightly. “You haven't had one of those in years.”
She tilts her head, considering me, then steps closer, closing the distance just enough to make the conversation private without making it obvious.
“Does this have anything to do with a certain Christine?” She pokes, her voice lower now.
“Let it go,” Enzo mutters from behind, but she ignores him completely.
“Does it?” Her focus stays on me. “Heard she was the planner,” she continues, watching for a reaction that doesn’t come. “And I was told you seemed rather… occupied.”
“You’re reaching.” I take another sip.
“I’m here to clean up your scandal, Robert,” she replies calmly. “I observe.”
“You weren’t even there,” Enzo chimes in again.
“I didn’t need to be.” She shrugs flippantly, her gaze never leaving me. “Is she a problem?”
“Let it be, Lia.” I click my tongue, irritation skating up my throat.
“But she’s something,” she adds.
“Here.” I hand the cup to Enzo without looking at him. “Finish that.”
“Huh…” He takes it automatically, glancing between us like he’s trying to decide if he missed something important. “Thanks.”
“Tastes like piss.” I turn, already moving toward the stairs, already done with this.
“Where are you going?” Enzo calls after me.
“To get ready.”
“For what?” he adds.
“Everything ahead.” Cryptic, but it’s the fucking truth.
I leave them there.
When I step into the restaurant, the city has already dulled. The day noise thins into something softer, but the place doesn’t change with it.
The entrance slides open without sound, the faint scent of wood and something simmering drifting toward me, familiar, grounding in a way I don’t acknowledge out loud.
The staff straightens when they see me, bowing briskly.
“Sir.”
I nod in response, continuing on my way, past the main floor, past the low tables and soft partitions, and past the murmured conversations tucked neatly into their own spaces.
I’m led to one of the inner rooms.
The sliding door opens to tatami underfoot, a low table already set, and a single light casting a warm glow across the space.
I step in and the door closes behind me.
I sit.
Not long after, a cup is placed in front of me. Jasmine tea, with the steam curling upward in slow spirals.
I don’t touch it, my gaze resting on the door.
She’s late but it's not unexpected.
Christine doesn’t strike me as the kind of person to move when she’s told to. She decides. She calculates. She chooses her timing the same way I do.
I allow for that.
Five minutes pass.
Then ten.
The restaurant breathes around me. Soft footsteps outside. The faint slide of doors opening and closing. Cutlery placed carefully. Voices that don’t rise above their boundaries.
I went to Japan once, saw how their restaurants run, with high turnover, and I understood immediately what it could be. High-end clientele, private rooms, and contained environments.
It’s a good investment.
It attracts the right kind of people. People with money. People who prefer discretion. People who don’t ask questions.
And more importantly, it gives me a space where conversations happen behind closed doors and no one remembers what they heard when they leave.
I pick up the cup eventually, taking a slow sip, the warmth pricking without registering.
My attention never leaves the door.
Fifteen minutes. Twenty.
I check my watch phone, but there's nothing from her.
I breathe, my teeth clenching at what this is beginning to look like. It isn’t hesitation. It is absence.
Thirty minutes later, the tea cools.
My mood? Not so much.
An hour passes.
The rhythm of the restaurant transitions again. Fewer footsteps now, the night is starting to close in around the place instead of expanding it.
I lean back slightly, my gaze narrowing just a fraction as I run Saturday night again in my head.
The way she moved the second I looked too long, like something in her snapped into place before she could think it through. Her hand on Blue, pulling her closer, angling her body away from me like that would be enough.
I know that kind of reaction. I’ve seen it before when something needs to be hidden, protected, or kept out of reach.
I replay it again, slower now, stripping it down to what it was without the noise of everything else around it.
The look in her eyes, like she could tell I was already connecting it.
I exhale through my nose, my fingers tapping once against the table before stilling.
Her trying to get Blue as far away from me as possible could only mean what I feel in my guts it means.
And if she’s not here to clear the air, then she’s not trying to. Which means there’s something she doesn’t want said.
Midnight comes.
The last of the staff move through the outer spaces, closing what needs to be closed, leaving the room untouched because I’m still in it.
Waiting… For the gift of being a father.
Again.