Chapter 8 - The Shadow of the Past
Two weeks after the mediation agreement was executed, the financial settlements cleared into my bank account.
Brandon paid the licensing fees, returned the stolen joint funds, and issued a formal written apology to my mother—though it was clear his lawyer had drafted every word. Brianna’s salon was placed under an official state board investigation, forcing her to suspend operations temporarily.
With $37,000 in my account and my reputation fully restored, I rented a charming, sunlit studio space in downtown San Jose to expand my freelance graphic design business into a full-scale creative agency.
One evening, as I was packing up my desk to head home, a shadow fell across the frosted glass door of my studio.
I looked up. Brandon was standing outside, peering in through the glass.
I hesitated, then unlocked the door, keeping it held open slightly. "Brandon. You aren't supposed to be here."
"I know," he said softly. He looked thinner, his hair unstyled, wearing a simple hoodie instead of his usual tailored suits. "I just... I saw the light on. I wanted to see your new place."
"It's private property, Brandon. Please leave."
"Naomi, please," he begged, his eyes desperate. "Just five minutes. No lawyers, no parents. Just us."
I took a breath, stepping back to let him into the entryway, but keeping my distance behind my desk. "Five minutes."
He looked around the bright room, taking in the framed design prints on the walls. "It looks great. You always had an amazing eye for space."
"Thank you. What do you want, Brandon?"
He looked down at the floor, rubbing the back of his neck. "My dad kicked me out of the house last week. He blames me for the settlement, for the bad press, for everything. My company had to delay the expansion because of the rebranding costs."
"Actions have consequences," I reminded him gently.
"I know!" he burst out, tears suddenly welling in his eyes. "I know I ruined everything! I was an idiot, Naomi. I listened to my father my whole life, thinking he knew what was best. He convinced me that your family was beneath us, that your mother was holding you back from fitting into our social circle. I let him poison my mind!"
"You aren't a child, Brandon," I said firmly. "You were twenty-eight years old. You made a choice to hurt my mother."
"I’m so sorry," he wept, stepping closer. "I miss you every single day. I wake up in the middle of the night reaching for you. Please... can we just try again? We can move away from San Jose. We can go to San Francisco or Los Angeles. Just you and me."
I looked at him, feeling a deep, quiet sadness for the man he could have been if he had chosen courage over approval.
"We can't, Brandon," I said softly.
"Why?" he pleaded. "I'm changing! I'm cutting my father off!"
I placed my hands gently over my stomach, letting my palms rest against the noticeable bump beneath my sweater.
Brandon’s eyes followed my movement. His breath caught in his throat.
"Naomi...?" he whispered, his eyes widening in complete shock. "Are... are you...?"
"I'm fifteen weeks pregnant, Brandon," I said clearly.
He stumbled back a step, grabbing the edge of a display table to steady himself. "Pregnant? With... with my baby?"
"Yes."
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"Why didn't you tell me?" he shouted, a mix of awe and devastation in his voice. "Why didn't you tell me on the wedding day?!"
"Because on our wedding day, you watched a man push my mother into a wall and you protected the woman who mutilated her hair," I answered, my voice steady and unforgiving. "You proved you were not ready to protect a family. And I will never bring a child into an environment where cruelty is excused."
