Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Julian
Imake it less than ten minutes from Sophie’s house before I turn toward the coast. The rental car moves through traffic almost automatically, but I barely register the streets around me.
My hands stay locked around the steering wheel, my jaw tight enough to ache, and every breath feels too shallow for the amount of pressure building in my chest. I keep seeing Theo standing in that doorway, not as a collection of details I can catalog and analyze, but simply as a child who exists inside a life Sophie built without me.
I try to force another explanation into place because I need one.
Maybe Sophie was with someone else after she left Philadelphia?
Maybe she met someone in California?
Maybe Theo’s age means less than I think it does?
Maybe I am taking coincidence and turning it into certainty because I am still too close to everything that happened between Sophie and me over the past several days?
The possibilities sound reasonable until I remember the hesitation before she answered me and the way her face changed when I asked how old he was.
That is the part I cannot explain away.
Traffic opens near the water, and I take the first turn that gives me access to the beach.
I park without checking the sign, shut off the engine, and remain behind the wheel for several seconds before finally getting out.
The air is cooler here, carrying salt and wind off the Pacific.
I kick off my shoes when I reach the sand and leave them near the edge of the walkway before heading toward the water.
The ocean stretches in front of me, enormous and indifferent.
I stop where the sand turns darker beneath the tide line and stare at the water while the wind pulls at my shirt.
For most of my life, I have understood how to confront whatever was in front of me.
Problems have structure. Companies fail for reasons.
Systems break at identifiable points. Even people usually leave enough evidence behind to understand why they made the choices they did.
This has none of that. There is only a boy I met for less than five minutes and a question I cannot answer without Sophie.
I drag both hands over my face and lower them slowly.
If Theo is mine, then every assumption I have carried about Sophie’s life after she left changes.
So does mine. I have spent years believing I understood what I lost, and standing here now, I realize I may never have understood the full shape of it at all.
The thought leaves me physically unsettled.
I walk farther along the water because moving feels easier than standing still.
The surf folds over itself near my feet while I try to make the possibility smaller, more manageable, something I can put into a category and examine logically.
It refuses to cooperate. Every route circles back to the same place.
Maybe I am wrong?
I tell myself that several times, but the words never gain any weight.
Eventually, I turn back toward the parking lot.
My shoes are exactly where I left them. I put them on, return to the car, and sit behind the wheel without starting the engine.
For several minutes, I stare through the windshield and try to decide what comes next, because whatever else happens, I am not getting on a plane back to New York and pretending I can deal with this from three thousand miles away.
I reach for my phone and call Tamara.
She answers quickly.
“How did the California meetings go?”
“They’re going to have to wait,” I tell her.
Tamara pauses before asking, “Meaning?”
“I need you to clear the rest of my week.”
“Everything?”
“Yes. Move the board strategy review. Adrian can handle it, and Evelyn can cover the capital committee or brief me later.”
Tamara is quiet for a moment before asking, “Are you coming back to New York?”
“No. I’m staying in Los Angeles.”
Her tone changes immediately.
“Julian, what happened?”
“Something came up. I need a few days.”
Tamara does not press, but I can hear the concern underneath her next question.
“What do you want me to tell everyone?”
“Tell them I’m sick.”
“You never take sick days.”
“Then maybe they’ll finally believe I’m human.”
That earns a brief silence before Tamara says, “Fine. I’ll clear the calendar.”
“I also need a hotel in Santa Monica. Book me at Shutters through Sunday.”
“You want an ocean-view suite?”
“Yes.”
“We have an account there, so I can handle it directly.”
“Good. Send me the confirmation when it’s done.”
“I will.”
I am about to end the call when Tamara says my name.
“Julian?”
“Yes?”
“Whatever this is, make sure you’re actually taking the time you’re clearing.”
I look through the windshield toward the line of palms across the road.
“I am.”
We end the call, and a few minutes later the hotel confirmation appears in my inbox. I barely look at it before opening Sophie’s contact instead.
For several seconds, I stare at the blank message field, trying to decide how much to say. Nothing I type feels adequate, and I refuse to have this conversation through text anyway.
Finally, I write:
Julian: I need to speak with you privately. I’m staying in Los Angeles for the rest of the week. Can you meet me tomorrow at Shutters in Santa Monica?
I read the message once before sending it. The screen shows that it has been delivered. I set the phone on the passenger seat and remain behind the wheel, still unable to bring myself to start the car.
For once, there is nothing I can organize, direct, negotiate, or solve. All I can do is wait for Sophie to answer and hope that when she does, I am prepared to hear the truth.
My phone vibrates one minute later. I read the message:
Sophie: Yes.
***
The next afternoon, I am already sitting on a bench overlooking the hotel gardens when Sophie walks toward me.
She sees me before I stand, and for a moment her pace slows. She is dressed simply in dark trousers and a pale blouse, her hair loose around her shoulders, but there is nothing relaxed about her. I can see the tension in the way she holds herself before she reaches me.
“Julian, I just—”
“Stop,” I tell her.
She does.
I stand and face her fully. My chest is already tight, and I can hear my own breathing in the space between us.
“I need you to answer one question before anything else.”
Sophie’s eyes fill almost immediately as I hold her gaze.
“Is Theo my son?”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out at first.
Then she nods.
“Yes.”
The word hits with more force than I am prepared for.
I look away because suddenly I cannot get enough air.
My lungs feel locked, and I drag in a breath that does nothing to steady me.
I put one hand on the back of the bench and lower my head for a second, trying to absorb what she has just confirmed.
When I look at her again, I am angry. Not the clean kind of anger I know how to use. This is grief with nowhere to go.
“How could you do that?”
Sophie flinches.
“How could you let me go all this time without knowing I had a son?”
“I was scared.”
“That doesn’t answer it.”
“I know.”
“Then answer me.”
Tears spill down her face, but she does not look away.
“I found out I was pregnant when everything was falling apart,” Sophie says.
“The investigation was everywhere. The article had come out, my work had been taken and twisted into something I never agreed to, and I couldn’t reach you.”
I say nothing.
She continues, her voice shaking now.
“I quit. I handed in the phone, the laptop, everything connected to the Journal, and then I realized I was pregnant. By that point, every headline with your name in it was vicious. Every person around Blackwell was being dissected. I kept thinking about what would happen if anyone found out.”
My jaw tightens.
Sophie wipes at her face.
“I thought they would turn the pregnancy into another story. Another weapon. And when I couldn’t even get past your assistant to speak with you…I thought they would come after me, and eventually they would come after the baby too.”
“So you left?”
“Yes.”
“For California?”
“My sister was here. I needed somewhere I could breathe.”
I look at her.
“And that was enough to keep him from me?”
“No,” she says immediately.
“It wasn’t that simple.”
“It feels pretty simple from where I’m standing.”
“I know how it looks now.”
“Do you?”
Sophie closes her eyes for a second before opening them again.
“At first, I was trying to survive the next week. Then the next month. I told myself I would figure out how to contact you when everything calmed down. But the longer I was here, the safer it felt. I had family. I had help. I was building something stable.”
“And at some point you decided I didn’t get to know?”
Her face crumples slightly.
“At some point, I got used to being afraid of what would happen if I told you.”
That answer hurts more than I expect.
I stare at her.
Sophie’s voice drops.
“I know it was imperfect. I know I should have found another way. But at the time, I thought I was protecting him.”
“From me?”
“No.”
“Then from what?”
“From everything that came with you.”
I look away. She steps closer but does not touch me.
“I saw what happened when your family was under pressure,” Sophie says.
“I saw how quickly people turned private things into public ammunition. I didn’t know who I could trust. I didn’t know whether reaching out would bring that entire machine back into my life.”
I turn back to her.
“You could have trusted me.”
Her eyes fill again.
“I wanted to.”
The words land quietly. For a moment, I cannot answer. The anger is still there, but now it has edges I cannot keep as sharp as I want them to be.
I sit back down on the bench and look out toward the water beyond the gardens. Sophie remains standing beside me for a second before sitting at the opposite end.
Neither of us speaks immediately.
Finally, I say, “I’m staying in Los Angeles.”
Sophie turns toward me.
“For how long?”
“At least a few more days. Maybe longer.”
She nods slowly.
“I need time to process this.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t know what happens next.”
“I know.”
I look at her.
“But I am not leaving this alone.”
Sophie’s eyes hold mine.
“I didn’t think you would.”
I stand.
She rises too.
“I’ll contact you.”
“Okay.”
Sophie hesitates before turning away.
I watch her walk toward the hotel path, and even after she disappears from view, I remain where I am, trying to understand how one word has changed the shape of my entire life.
I stay on the hotel grounds after Sophie leaves, walking without any real destination until I reach a quieter stretch near the edge of the property.
The afternoon is warm, the ocean visible beyond the palms, but I barely register any of it.
My mind keeps circling the same fact until I finally pull out my phone and call Adrian.
He answers after a few rings.
“So, what is this I hear about you coming down with some mysterious illness?”
I close my eyes briefly.
“Adrian.”
Something in my voice changes his tone immediately.
“What happened?”
I stop walking. “I have a son.”
There is silence on the other end.
Then Adrian says, “What?”
“A seven-year-old son.”
Another pause follows, longer this time.
“Julian, what are you talking about?”
“Sophie has a son. His name is Theo.”
Adrian exhales sharply.
“Are you saying he is yours?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“I saw him. Sophie confirmed it.”
Adrian goes quiet again.
When he speaks, the humor is completely gone.
“Jesus.”
I look out toward the water. “Yeah.”
“You have a seven-year-old son.”
“I know what I said.”
“I am not repeating it because I did not hear you. I am trying to understand how the hell this happened.”
“So am I.”
Adrian lowers his voice.
“Did Sophie know the whole time?”
“Yes.”
“And she never told you?”
“She says she tried to reach me when everything blew up. I tried to reach her too.”
“That must have been during the lockdown,” he says.
“I remember the policy.”
“Sophie would have been caught in that,” he says firmly.
My jaw tightens.
“She said she called. She said Daniel would not put her through.”
Adrian is quiet for a moment.
“That tracks with what was happening then.”
I feel the anger return, hot and immediate.
“Did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That she was pregnant.”
“No.”
“Adrian.”
“I am telling you the truth.”
I say nothing.
His voice hardens.
“Julian, if I had known you had a child, I would have told you. I would not have hidden that from you.”
I drag a hand across my face.
“I did not know,” Adrian says again.
“Not about the pregnancy. Not about Theo.”
I lean against the low wall beside the path.
After a moment, Adrian asks, “What is he like?”
The question catches me off guard.
“I do not know.”
“You met him,” he says
“For five minutes.”
“That is still five minutes more than I have.”
I look down at the phone.
“He is quiet,” I say.
“Observant.”
Adrian’s voice softens.
“And his name is Theo?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I am learning this at the same time you are.”
Adrian exhales. “Right.”
For a few seconds, neither of us says anything.
Then he asks, “What are you going to do?”
“I do not know yet.”
“That is probably the first sensible answer you have given me all day,” he says.
I almost smile, but it never gets there.
“I am staying in Los Angeles for now.”
“Good.”
“I need time to figure out what happened and what happens next.”
Adrian says, “Then take it.”
“I may need you to cover more in New York.”
“I already am.”
“I mean more than usual,” I say.
“I figured.”
I look out toward the water again.
“Adrian.”
“Yeah?”
“I have a son..”
This time, he does not try to make sense of it for me.
He only says, “I know.”
I end the call a few minutes later and remain where I am, phone still in my hand, with the first real certainty I have had since yesterday settling heavily into place.
Whatever happened seven years ago, neither Sophie nor I knew the whole truth.