Chapter 6 - THE PLAZA CONFRONTATION
I walked out of the office building at four o'clock that afternoon, accompanied by my senior partner, Arthur Sterling—no relation to my late father, just a brilliant sixty-year-old architect who had become a father figure to me over the past seven months.
The Pacific Northwest air was crisp and clear as we stepped onto the stone plaza.
“We can take my car to the clinic for your ultrasound, Emma,” Arthur said warmly, holding a light sweater over his arm for me. “My wife packed some homemade ginger tea for you in the cooler.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” I smiled, adjusting my handbag.
“Emma.”
The voice came from the left side of the fountain. Low, raspy, completely stripped of its former arrogant polish.
I stopped. Arthur immediately stepped slightly in front of me, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the man walking toward us.
Dominic looked as if he had aged ten years in seven months. His tailored suit hung loosely on his gaunt frame, his dark hair was streaked with gray at the temples, and deep, dark purple hollows bruised the skin beneath his eyes. He wasn't wearing his executive watch. He wasn't wearing his wedding ring.
In his right hand, he clutched a small, worn wooden box—my old memory box.
“Emma...” Dominic rasped, taking three frantic steps toward us before Arthur held up a firm hand.
“Stand back, sir,” Arthur commanded sternly. “Who are you?”
Dominic didn't even look at Arthur. His bloodshot eyes were locked entirely on me—on my face, on my cream-colored dress, and finally, on the large, unmistakable curve of my seven-month belly.
A choking, strangled breath broke from Dominic’s chest. He dropped to his knees right there on the concrete plaza, in front of dozens of commuting office workers, dropping the wooden box onto the stone beside him.
“Emma... my God... Emma...” he wept openly, his shoulders shaking violently as he buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry... please... please...”
I stood perfectly still, watching him. Seven months ago, seeing this man on his knees would have torn my heart into pieces. I would have rushed forward, held his head against my chest, and forgiven him every sin just to stop his pain.
Now, looking down at him, I felt a strange, profound sense of distance. It was like looking at a character in a book I had finished reading months ago.
“Get up, Dominic,” I said, my voice calm, flat, and steady. “You’re making a scene.”
He raised his face, tears streaming down his hollow cheeks, his hands reaching out toward me without touching me. “I didn't know, Emma... I swear to God on my father’s grave I didn't know you were pregnant when you left! I found the picture in the box... I found your journal...”
“You didn't know I was pregnant,” I repeated smoothly. “But you knew I was your wife. You knew I was sitting in an empty house for three years believing you couldn't hear my voice. You knew your mother was insulting me every day while you watched sports on the television.”
Dominic flinched as if I had struck him across the face with an iron bar. “I was a fool... I was an arrogant, blind fool! I thought... I thought you would always be there! I thought you belonged to me!”
“I never belonged to you, Dominic,” I said softly. “I loved you. There’s a difference.”
“I’ve cleared everything out,” he sobbed frantically, pulling a stack of legal papers from his coat pocket and holding them up toward me. “I severed all ties with Vanessa’s family. I put my mother in a private care home in Florida. I sold the Lake Forest estate! I bought a house here in Seattle... five minutes from your office! I’m moving my practice here, Emma! We can start over! I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you and our baby!”
I looked down at the papers in his shaking hand—deeds, trust transfers, house keys.
“No, Dominic,” I said.
He froze, his weeping cutting off mid-breath. “What...?”
“You don't get to move your life to my city,” I stated cleanly. “You don't get to buy a house near my office and pretend we are going to play happy family. You made your choices in Lake Forest. I made mine the night I signed those papers.”
“He’s my son!” Dominic shouted, a flash of his old, desperate authority breaking through his grief. “You’re carrying my son, Emma! You can’t keep him from me!”
“I won't keep him from you legally,” I replied smoothly, taking a step closer to him so only he could hear my words. “When he is born, your lawyers can petition the court for supervised visitation rights according to Washington state law. You will receive progress reports through a court-approved parenting application. But you will never step foot inside my home. You will never hear me sing to him. And you will never, ever be my husband again.”
May you like
I turned back to Arthur, slipping my arm through his. “Let's go to the clinic, Arthur. We don't want to be late for the scan.”
As Arthur led me toward his car, Dominic remained on his knees on the concrete plaza, clutching my old memory box against his chest, weeping as the warm Seattle afternoon sun faded into dusk around him.
