[Caspian’s POV]
The lawyer's office smells like old leather and quiet money. Jason Crest sits across from me, his fingers steepled like he's about to deliver a sermon on the complexities of family law.
"You have options, Mr. Rothwell." His voice is measured, clinical. "We can file for a court-ordered paternity test. Once established, you'd have grounds for custody arrangements, visitation rights, child support obligations—"
"She already knows." The words taste like ash. "The mother. She knows I'm the father."
"That simplifies things legally." He makes a note on his tablet. "Though without her cooperation, it becomes... messier. More expensive. Public."
The word 'public' lands wrong. I imagine Aria's face on tabloids, photographers camping outside Serena's apartment building. The way that little girl asked if her nose was broken, blood streaming down her face while reaching for me—for me—like I was someone safe.
"How messy?" My voice sounds distant, like it's coming from someone else's throat.
Marcus doesn't sugarcoat it. He walks me through the process with the detachment of someone who's done this a hundred times. Court dates. Depositions. A judge deciding how much of my daughter's life I get to have based on what? My bank account? My last name? The fact that I fled a dorm room seven years ago like a coward?
"Your wealth and resources would work in your favor," he continues. "Stable home environment, excellent schools, security—"
"Stop." The word comes out sharper than intended.
He stops. Waits.
I think about that day. About Aria's small hand reaching for Serena, then reaching for me too. The way Serena's body went rigid, how she scooped up her daughter like I was a threat instead of... what? I don't even know what I want to be.
Just know that forcing my way into their lives with lawyers and court orders feels like destroying something before it has a chance to exist.
"What if I don't pursue this legally?" The question feels like surrender and relief simultaneously. "What are my rights then?"
Jason's expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes shifts. "None. Legally speaking, you'd have no claim to the child without paternity establishment and custody agreements."
"So I'd be at her mercy."
"The mother's, yes." He pauses, measuring his next words. "Though that's not necessarily a weakness, Mr. Rothwell. Sometimes the strongest position is the one that looks like vulnerability."
I pay him for two hours I don't use and leave with nothing resolved.
* * *
The office feels like a fishbowl. Glass walls, glass doors, everyone visible to everyone else. It's supposed to promote transparency, collaboration. Right now, it just means I can see Serena from my desk.
She's hunched over her laptop three departments away, shoulders curved like she's trying to make herself smaller. Her coffee cup sits forgotten beside her, probably cold. She's been in that position for two hours, hasn't moved except to type.
I should be reviewing the Henderson acquisition. Should be preparing for tomorrow's board meeting. Instead, I'm watching a woman who hates me work herself into exhaustion because she has no other choice.
My phone buzzes. Sebastian: I see you’ve contacted Crest. Whatever you're planning, don't.
I don't respond. Don't stop watching either.
Serena reaches up, rubs the back of her neck in a way that speaks of chronic pain.
The personnel file sits in my desk drawer. I haven't opened it since this morning. Haven't needed to—the contents are burned into my brain like a brand.
Serena Vale. Senior Financial Analyst. Salary: $87,000.
Eighty-seven thousand in Manhattan. With a six-year-old daughter. In a shady neighborhood.
Emergency Contact: Lily Vale, sister, age 17.
That line does something violent to my chest. She has no one. Raised her sister alone after their mother died. Now raising Aria alone. All that brilliance, that ruthless capability, and she has a seventeen-year-old as her only backup.
I could fix this. One phone call to HR. A promotion she's overqualified for anyway. A raise that would let her move to a building with actual security. Set up a trust for Aria, ensure her education is covered regardless of what happens between Serena and me.
I already offered her a raise, that she reluctantly accepted. Now I fear that anything more substantial might backfire.
Because I know that she'd see it as manipulation. As me using my power to control her, to buy my way into Aria's life.
She'd refuse it. Might quit entirely just to prove she doesn't need me.
The urge to fix everything wars with knowing she'll reject any help that looks like pity.
The thought circles my mind like a predator.
Across the office, Serena stands abruptly. Sways slightly—when did she last eat?—then steadies herself. She's gathering her things, probably heading home to her life she's managed to construct without me.
My hand reaches for my phone before I can stop myself. I could text her. Offer to—what? Order dinner to her apartment? That's not weird or controlling at all.
I set the phone down. Pick up the personnel file instead.
$87,000. It's not poverty. It's not nothing. But it's also not enough. Not for Manhattan. Not with a child. Not when one emergency—one broken lock, one missed paycheck, one medical bill—could shatter everything.
The file lists her educational debt too. Still paying off Columbia. The scholarships covered tuition but not living expenses. She graduated with $60,000 in loans at 6.8% interest.
I did the math this morning. She won't be done paying until Aria is thirteen.
My own Columbia tuition was a line item on my father's quarterly tax returns. A rounding error in the Rothwell portfolio.
The inequity of it makes me physically ill.
I want to storm down there, demand she accept help. Want to tell her that pride is a luxury neither she nor Aria can afford. Want to shake her and ask why she'd rather struggle than let me do the one thing I'm actually capable of—solving problems with money.
But I know why. Because accepting my help means admitting she needs me. Means giving me leverage. Means trusting that I won't hold it over her head every time we fight.
And why should she trust me? I left her in that hotel room. Walked away from every chance we had to be something other than enemies. Did a lot more in college—things I’d rather not recount.
Serena disappears into the elevator. I watch the floor indicator descend—15, 12, 9—like I'm tracking a piece of myself leaving.
My phone buzzes again. Sebastian: Seriously. Whatever you're thinking, sleep on it. Preferably for a week.
I close the personnel file. Lock it in my drawer like that will somehow lock away the knowledge of her salary, her neighborhood, her seventeen-year-old emergency contact.
But the numbers stay with me. $87,000. Nine months after graduation.
The glass walls feel like accusation. Like everyone can see what I'm thinking, this visceral need to fix what I helped break.
I force myself back to the Henderson acquisition. Make it through three pages before my eyes drift to Serena's empty desk.
I do nothing. Sit in my glass office, surrounded by power I can't use, watching the space where she was and feeling the weight of options I can't exercise without destroying the only thing I want—a chance to know my daughter.
To maybe, eventually, know her mother again too.
The evening stretches ahead, empty and waiting.
I stay at my desk until the cleaning crew arrives, pretending to work, really just avoiding my penthouse and its new ghost of what family might feel like.