The courier arrives at 9 AM sharp, interrupting my third cup of coffee and the Montana contract I've been staring at without actually reading. Professional delivery, the kind that requires a signature, the kind that means someone spent money to make sure this reached me.
Claire's handwriting on the envelope stops my heart.
No return address, just my name in her precise, controlled script—the same handwriting that filled my calendar with meeting notes, that left Post-its on contracts reminding me about jurisdictional issues I'd missed.
My hands shake opening it. The paper is expensive, cream-colored, the kind of stationery someone buys when they're trying to make a statement.
Lysander,
By the time you read this, I'll be settled in Boston and trying to start over. I'm writing because I owe you honesty even if you didn't always give me the same courtesy.
The words hit like a physical blow. I'm standing in my office, door closed, reading the first paragraph over and over while my coffee goes cold on the desk.
You asked if I'm pregnant and you said you have a right to know. You're wrong about the right—my body, my choice, always. But I'm telling you anyway because keeping it from you feels cruel in ways I don't want to be.
My chest tightens. I know what's coming before I read it but the confirmation still destroys me.
I took three tests, and all are positive. I'm approximately eight weeks pregnant with your child.
Eight weeks! Which means that night in my apartment, the last time we were together before everything imploded.
Before you do something dramatic like fly to Boston or call lawyers or try to claim parental rights—stop. I'm not asking you for anything. I don't want your money, your support, your presence, or your obligation.
Each word is surgical and precise, cutting me apart with efficiency that would be impressive if it wasn't destroying me.
I'm keeping the baby. This is my choice, and I'm raising it alone in Boston, far from you and Denver and all the ways being near you destroys me.
My legs give out. I'm sitting in my desk chair, reading by the light filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows, trying to process that Claire is pregnant with my child and refuses to let me be involved.
You'll probably think this is unfair. That I'm depriving you of your child, stealing your chance at fatherhood. Maybe I am, but I've watched you for two years now. I won't let my child grow up watching their father love someone else. They deserve better.
The accusation lands because it's true. Every word, every observation she's made about my pattern of choosing Caroline, of keeping Claire as backup.
My throat closes. She's protecting our child from me, from my inability to commit, my pattern of hurting people by refusing to choose.
Don't try to find me, don't send money or gifts or lawyers. I'm serious about doing this alone. If you actually care about me, about us, then let me go.
The command is clear but my mind is already calculating—Boston firms I know, contacts who could locate her, ways to establish paternity rights even if she doesn't want me involved.
I loved enough to destroy myself trying to be what you needed. But I love this baby more, and that means protecting them from men who can't commit.
Past tense: she loved me but not anymore. The grief hits harder than I expect.
I hope you find what you're looking for and figure out what you actually want before you destroy someone else the way you destroyed us.
Take care of yourself.
Claire
I read it again and again. Four times through until the words blur together and my hands shake so badly the expensive paper rattles.
She's pregnant. I should call lawyers, establish paternity rights, fight for custody, use every legal weapon at my disposal to force my way into my child's life. But all I feel is devastation mixed with something that might be relief.
She's doing what I couldn't: making the hard choice and protecting our baby.
My phone explodes across my desk. Kieran's name flashing. Of course… Pack bonds mean he probably felt my distress through whatever connection we share.
"Did you get Claire pregnant and let her run to Boston?!" No preamble or gentle lead-in.
My voice comes out strangled. "How did you—"
"Luna. She called in tears saying you're sad about a baby and Claire and something breaking." His tone is tight, controlled Alpha rage barely leashed. "Is it true?"
"She told me in a letter." I'm staring at Claire's handwriting, at the words that just dismantled my world. "She's eight weeks pregnant and refusing to let me be involved."
"Are you going after her?"
I think about Caroline's Instagram posts I still check daily. About the way something in me lit up when she appeared at my office that night despite knowing it was wrong, knowing Claire was home waiting.
"I don't know."
"You don't know. Right." Kieran's voice goes arctic. "You got a woman pregnant. She'll be raising your child alone. And you don't know if you're going after her?"
"She doesn't want me there—"
"Because you spent time proving she was your backup plan!" His voice rises, Alpha command bleeding through professional restraint. "You kept her hoping while loving Thalia first, then Caroline. You're still in love with Caroline, and Claire knows it."
The accusation lands like a blow. "I'm not—"
"Stop lying to yourself." He's breathing hard, fury barely contained. "Claire needs someone who chooses her completely. If you can't be that person, let her go. But Lysander—you need to decide. Chase Caroline and commit to her, or go to Boston and commit to Claire, but stop destroying everyone by refusing to choose."
The line goes dead. I sit with the letter, with Kieran's ultimatum, trying to figure out what I actually want. What I'm willing to fight for and who I'm capable of choosing.
My phone buzzes with a text from Caroline's number—the first contact in three weeks that felt like three years.
Heard you're going to be a father. Congratulations. You should go after her. She deserves someone who chooses her first, and we both know that's not me. Take care of yourself. -C
So Caroline knows. Somehow word reached her about the pregnancy and she's actively pushing me toward Claire because she's done, moving on in ways I haven't been able to.
Two options that I have now: Go to Boston, fight for Claire, try to build something with her and our child. Or respect her wishes, let her raise the baby alone, accept that I destroyed this like I destroyed everything else by refusing to choose.
The third option—chase Caroline, prove I can commit to her—feels impossible now. She's made it clear she's done, and I have a child coming. Responsibilities that don't align with trying to win back the woman I chose wrong about.
I book a flight to Boston, Saturday morning, first available. If Claire won't see me, if she refuses to let me be involved—at least I tried.
At least I finally chose.