Adison’s POV
"Calm down, Victoria."
The words come out with the kind of authority that only exists when you're standing on the winning side of a legal demolition. When you've watched someone's lawsuit crumble into dust and legal fees they can't afford. When you're owed money instead of owing explanations.
Victoria's face does something complicated—rage fighting for dominance over shock that I'd dare speak to her like an equal.
"You don't tell me—"
"I do, actually." I lean forward slightly, hands flat on my desk. "Because I sign your paychecks. Because this company belongs to me now, not my father. And because your son just threatened a pregnant woman in her own office."
The reminder lands exactly where I intended—right in the center of whatever professional dignity she's still clinging to.
"Take Walter and leave." My voice stays level, almost bored. "Before I decide humiliating him legally wasn't quite enough."
Walter moves toward the door without waiting for his mother's permission, and I watch defeat reshape his entire posture. The rage that brought him storming in has evaporated, replaced by the kind of hollow shame that comes from losing spectacularly in front of witnesses.
The door closes behind him, and victory settles into my bones.
Cold. Necessary. Somehow still unsatisfying in ways I don't want to examine too closely.
Because winning feels like armor I'm wearing, and underneath it I'm just exhausted.
Victoria turns toward Violet with the precision of someone who's been waiting for exactly this opening.
"I won't be paying for your education." The statement lands like a verdict. "Tuition, housing, books—none of it. You made your choice when you betrayed this family."
Violet goes completely still, and I recognize the paralysis immediately because I've lived it. That frozen moment when someone who's supposed to protect you weaponizes their authority instead. When defiance has consequences you've been conditioned to fear.
"Traitor." Victoria says the word like she's branding cattle. "That's what you are. Siding with her against your own blood."
"Mom—" Violet's voice cracks, and the sound of it does something to my chest.
I'm moving before I consciously decide to.
"I'll pay for it." The words come out flat and final. "Every cent. Tuition, housing, books, whatever she needs."
Victoria pivots toward me, and her expression promises retribution I'm too tired to care about.
"Violet is remarkable." I hold her gaze without blinking. "Despite you, not because of you. And I'm happy to invest in her future since you've clearly decided not to."
The silence that follows feels like oxygen returning to a room that's been suffocating.
Victoria's jaw tightens, and for one perfect second I see her calculating whether to fight this battle. Then something shifts in her expression—recognition that she's already lost too much today to risk losing more.
She leaves without another word, carrying defeat like a physical weight.
The office finally breathes again.
"Are you serious?" Violet's voice is small, uncertain in ways I'm not used to hearing from her. "About paying for school?"
"Completely serious." I sink into my desk chair, one hand on my stomach where exhaustion lives these days. "Now can we all please get back to actual work? I'm running a company here."
The deflection is intentional—redirect to business before emotion gets too complicated, before anyone expects me to process what just happened in ways I'm not ready for.
Violet crosses the space between us and throws her arms around me before I can stop her.
The embrace lands like absolution for every mistake we've both made. Every choice that brought us here. Every moment of choosing each other when blood ties said we shouldn't.
"Thank you." She's crying against my shoulder, and I let her. "Thank you thank you thank you."
"You're welcome." I hold her tighter than the moment probably requires. "Now go do something productive before Zachary thinks I've lost my mind."
She laughs through tears and pulls back, and there's something in her expression that looks like family.
Not the kind you're born into. The kind you build from people who choose to stay.
* * *
That evening I find Jake and Tommy watching some action movie in the living room, the kind with explosions and other.
"I'm starving." Tommy announces suddenly, standing with the subtlety of someone who's been waiting for his cue. "Anyone need anything from that deli on Third?"
"We're good," Jake says without looking at him.
"Right. Good. I'll just—" Tommy gestures vaguely toward the door. "Be back eventually."
He leaves, and the manufactured excuse fools absolutely no one.
Jake mutes the television, and the silence that follows feels loaded with everything we've been avoiding since the gender reveal party.
"I'm flying home in a few days." He delivers it like ripping off a bandage—quick and brutal and designed to minimize pain that can't be minimized. "With Tommy and Paige."
The statement detonates in my chest.
"Why?" The question comes out steadier than I feel, and I'm grateful for muscle memory that knows how to perform calm even when I'm fracturing underneath.
"I'm not ready to give up my life abruptly." His hands are clasped between his knees, and he won't quite meet my eyes. "I need time at home. Time to figure out what this looks like."
I hear everything he's not saying underneath the careful words.
That Manhattan suffocates him. That he doesn't belong here. That raising our son in my world feels like erasure of everything he is.
"Are you leaving me?" My voice stays level, and it costs me everything.
"No." The denial comes fast, but then he adds: "I just need time. Space. Need to be in Texas for a while."
The qualifier sounds exactly like leaving wearing a different name.
"Okay." I force the word out because what choice do I have? "If that's what you need."
He finally looks at me, and there's something wounded in his expression that makes my throat tight.
"I'm not abandoning you, Adison. I'm just—"
"Going home." I finish for him. "I understand."
But I don't. Not really.
Because home is supposed to be where the people you love are, and he's choosing a place over a person. Choosing land and legacy over the woman carrying his child.
The space between us feels like practice for every future distance we haven't figured out how to bridge.
"When do you leave?" I ask, because logistics are safer than feelings.
"Sunday morning." His voice carries regret that doesn't change anything. "Early flight."
A couple of days. We have a couple of days before he walks away from Manhattan and leaves me standing here with our son growing inside me and no idea how to make this work.
"I'll miss you." The admission tastes like surrender.
"I'll miss you too." He reaches for my hand, and the touch is gentle and devastating in equal measure. "This isn't goodbye, Adison. It's just—"
"Temporary." I supply the word he's searching for. "Distance is temporary."
He nods, and we both pretend to believe it.
But sitting here on my expensive Manhattan couch with Jake's hand in mine and Texas pulling him away, I understand something fundamental.
Love doesn't solve geography. It doesn't make compromise easy or sacrifice painless.
It just makes the distance hurt more when it comes.