Monday morning came far too early.
Charlotte woke to the sound of Milo whisper-singing to his dinosaur in the next room and the sour tang of anxiety at the back of her throat.
Seven days.
She lay there a moment, staring at the hairline crack in the ceiling above her bed, listening to the small, familiar noises of her apartment: the radiator pinging once as it settled, a car horn four floors down, the scrape of Mila’s slippered feet in the kitchen.
A week.
In a week, everything could be different.
Her job. Her future. Her relationship with her mother. With Dominic.
With her son.
“Mommy?”
She turned her head.
Milo stood in the doorway, hair sticking up on one side, dinosaur clutched in one small fist, the thumb of his other hand hovering near his mouth.
“Hey,” she said softly, pushing up onto her elbows. “You’re up early.”
“I had a dweam,” he said gravely.
“A dream?” She patted the bed. “Come tell me.”
He scrambled up, all elbows and knees, and flopped beside her.
“What did you dream about?” she asked, smoothing his hair.
“You were there,” he said. “And Lina. And Grandma. And a big man.”
Her heart stuttered.
“A big man?” she asked carefully.
“He was tall,” Milo said. “And he had gray eyes. Like me.”
Her lungs refused to work.
“Gray…like you,” she repeated.
He nodded. “He was flying,” he added, clearly pleased with the detail. “Like Superman. But no cape.”
Her chest loosened—just a fraction.
“Sounds…impressive,” she said.
“He had a bwiefcase,” Milo went on, utterly serious. “And a tie. He was going to work. In the sky.”
“Ambitious,” she murmured.
“I said, ‘Hi,’” Milo continued. “And he said…” He frowned, concentrating. “‘I’m late,’” he announced finally, imitating a deep voice. “‘I have to go to a meeting.’”
Despite everything, she laughed.
“Sounds about right,” she said.
“Who was he?” Milo asked, turning his big gray eyes on her. “Do you know him?”
The air left her lungs again.
“Maybe he’s…a superhero you made up,” she said lightly. “Or someone you saw on TV.”
“I don’t watch TV,” he said, affronted. “Just shows.”
“Right.” She sighed inwardly. “Just shows.”
He studied her face.
“Are you sad?” he asked quietly.
She forced a smile. “No,” she lied. “Just tired. Long week ahead.”
“Can we have pancakes?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Definitely.”
If the world was going to tilt, they could at least face it with maple syrup.
***
By 8:45, she was at her desk, blazer draped over her chair, Aspen spreadsheets open on her laptop.
She pretended to work.
Really, she stared at the screen and heard Dominic’s voice in her head.
> I’ll give you…a week. Then I start looking myself.
She picked up her pen and, without thinking, wrote “7” in the corner of her notepad.
Then circled it.
Her phone buzzed.
She snatched it up, heart lurching.
Not Dominic.
Her uncle.
> Henry: Coffee? I’m on 39. Your mother is terrorizing Legal. I need a palate cleanser.
She typed back.
> Charlie: 10? I’m buried in revisions until then.
> Henry: You and your damn work ethic. Fine. 10. Bring gossip.
She smiled, a small relief.
The intercom on her desk crackled.
“Charlotte?” Dana’s voice. “Your mother asked if you’re free at nine.”
Her stomach dropped.
“What for?” she asked.
“She didn’t say,” Dana replied. “Just said, ‘Have her here.’”
Of course.
“I’ll be there,” Charlotte said.
She smoothed her skirt, checked her reflection briefly in the dark screen of the wall TV. Hair in place. Concealer hiding the worst of the shadows under her eyes.
She moved toward the door.
“Wish me luck,” she told Dana.
“I always do,” Dana said fervently.
***
Eleanor was on the phone when Charlotte stepped into the office, pacing behind her desk, one hand at her temple.
“I don’t care what he’s offering,” she said coolly into the receiver. “We’re not selling Zurich. Not now. Not to *him.*”
A pause.
“Because he thinks he can get it,” she snapped. “And I enjoy depriving men of things they’re sure they’re entitled to.”
Charlotte’s lips twitched despite herself.
Her mother noticed the amusement and shot her a quelling look.
“Yes,” Eleanor said into the phone. “I have to go. Try not to promise away anything important while I’m off the line.”
She hung up.
“How was your weekend?” Charlotte ventured, because some part of her still clung, stupidly, to the remnants of normal conversation.
“You were at the most interesting part of it,” Eleanor said, sitting.
Her chest tightened.
“Thank you,” she said again. “For…inviting him.”
“Don’t mistake sentimentality for a change in policy,” Eleanor said crisply. “I asked to see my grandson. That doesn’t mean I’ve softened my position on anything else.”
“Understood,” Charlotte said.
Eleanor steepled her fingers.
“I spoke with James,” she said. “He believes we can extract another two points on management fees from Steele and an enhanced step-in right if performance targets aren’t met.”
“That’s good,” Charlotte said. “We need teeth.”
“We always need teeth,” Eleanor said. “But that’s not why I called you in.”
Charlotte’s pulse ticked up.
“I’ve been…thinking,” Eleanor went on. “About your…situation.”
Her throat went dry.
“My…situation?” she repeated.
“With Milo,” Eleanor said. “With Steele. With…the truth.”
The word felt like a ticking bomb on her mother’s tongue.
Charlotte gripped the back of the chair.
“I thought we were done discussing that,” she said carefully. “You made your position clear.”
“I did,” Eleanor said. “And I stand by it. I will not have you blurting paternity dramas into the middle of a negotiation I’ve spent my life earning the right to sit in.”
Anger flared.
“I haven’t—”
“But,” Eleanor interrupted, “I recognize that I may have been…overly blunt about your options.”
Charlotte blinked.
“Overly blunt,” she echoed. “That’s…one way to put it.”
Eleanor’s mouth pinched.
“I am not apologizing,” she said quickly. “For wanting to protect this family. Or this brand. But I am…acknowledging…that you are not a child. And that treating you like one is not…productive.”
For a moment, Charlotte could only stare.
“Are you…feeling all right?” she asked faintly.
Eleanor’s eyes flashed.
“Don’t get cute,” she said. “I had a long lunch with your uncle yesterday. He was…insufferable.”
Warmth flickered.
“He spoke to you,” Charlotte said slowly. “About me.”
“He lectured me,” Eleanor corrected. “On autonomy. And consequences. And the fact that driving you away would be…counterproductive.”
“He’s right,” Charlotte said.
“I hate it when he is,” she muttered.
Some of the tension in Charlotte’s shoulders eased.
“So,” she said cautiously, “what does…this…mean?”
“It means,” Eleanor said, “that while I still believe telling Steele right now would be a catastrophic mistake, I am…prepared to accept…that this is ultimately your decision.”
Shock rolled through her.
“You’re…what?” she whispered.
“Do not make me say it again,” Eleanor snapped. “I will get hives.”
“You’re saying…” Charlotte wet her lips. “If I tell him—”
“Not *if*,” Eleanor cut in. “*When.* Let’s be honest. You’ve already decided to. You’re simply waiting for the least damaging moment. If such a thing exists.”
Charlotte opened her mouth.
Closed it.
“I haven’t—”
“Spare me,” Eleanor said. “You’ve never been good at hiding it when something’s eating you alive. You pace. You tap your pen. You snap at your assistant. Then you overcompensate with snacks for the whole floor. It’s very…predictable.”
Heat rose to her cheeks.
“So you’re…resigning yourself to the inevitable,” she said slowly.
“I am…accepting reality,” Eleanor said. “Steele is not the kind of man you can keep in the dark forever. He will suspect. He will dig. He will find out, one way or another. Better it come from you than from some private investigator waving a lab report.”
Relief crashed over her, tangled with fear.
“I thought you’d…cut me out,” she said.
“I still might,” Eleanor said, not unkindly. “Depending on how spectacularly you mishandle this. But I am…willing to see how you handle it before I decide whether to fire you.”
“Progress,” Charlotte muttered.
“This is not a license to indulge your emotions,” Eleanor said. “It is…a test. Of your judgment.”
Charlotte’s spine straightened.
“I understand,” she said.
“Do you?” Eleanor regarded her steadily. “Because there are conditions.”
Of course there were.
“Let me guess,” Charlotte said. “I can only tell him after the Aspen deal is signed. Or right before I resign in disgrace.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Eleanor said. “I’m not asking you to martyr yourself. Merely to…sequence your disclosures in a way that doesn’t light a match to our balance sheet.”
“Sequence,” Charlotte repeated.
“You will not tell him before the board vote,” Eleanor said. “That is non-negotiable. We finalize terms. We secure capital. We stabilize Aspen. Then you can blow up your personal life to your heart’s content.”
“And if he…forces my hand?” she asked. “He gave me a…timeline.”
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”
“He said he’d…start looking,” she said. “Himself. After a week.”
The older woman’s jaw clenched.
“Arrogant,” she muttered. “Of course he thinks he can scoop up every secret in the world like a bargain bin.”
“Can he?” Charlotte asked quietly.
“In time, yes,” Eleanor said. “He has money. Lawyers. Curiosity. It’s a dangerous combination. Which is why you will have to be…smarter.”
“How?” she asked. “Lie better?”
“Stall,” Eleanor said. “Evade. Use the truth…sparingly. It’s not a binary switch, Charlotte. It’s a dimmer.”
Her laugh was short and disbelieving.
“You’re asking me to…half-tell him?” she said.
“I’m asking you not to hand him a loaded gun while we’re both standing in front of the target,” Eleanor said. “You can…indicate that there are complexities. That you need time. That you care about…protecting the child—”
“His name is Milo,” Charlotte said sharply.
“I am aware,” Eleanor said. “You can use that care to…frame your choices. He’s not a monster. He won’t bulldoze you if he thinks it will hurt…his son.” The last word was reluctant.
“So you *do* think—” Charlotte began.
Eleanor cut her off with a look.
“I am not blind, either,” she said crisply. “But until there is a test, there is…plausible deniability. Use it.”
“*You’re* telling *me* to use plausible deniability,” Charlotte said. “That’s rich.”
“You think because you carry his genes, you know how to wield gray areas better than I do?” Eleanor asked. “Please.”
She had no answer to that.
“So the rules are…” Charlotte ticked them off on her fingers. “Don’t tell him before the board vote. Don’t give him anything he can use against the company. Don’t have a breakdown in front of the press.”
“Accurate,” Eleanor said. “And…if you must tell him…do it in a controlled environment. Not in a hallway. Not over martinis. Certainly not in bed.”
Color flared in her face.
“I am not—”
“You are human,” Eleanor said. “You make impulsive choices when you’re hurt. That’s not judgment. That’s observation. Which is why I am telling you now: when you finally decide to tell him, I expect you to do it…sober. Clothed. With a plan.”
“A plan,” Charlotte echoed faintly.
“Yes,” Eleanor said. “One that considers custody. Public relations. The board’s reaction. Milo’s well-being. Not just how you feel in the moment.”
“You’re talking about…media strategy,” Charlotte said. “Not my son.”
“The two are not mutually exclusive,” Eleanor said. “If we control the narrative, we protect him too.”
“If we control the narrative,” Charlotte said bitterly, “we make him a story instead of a person.”
“He’s both,” Eleanor said. “Whether you like it or not. You are both. We live in the world we have, not the one you wish we did.”
“I know,” Charlotte said softly.
“I am not the villain you make me out to be,” Eleanor said, surprising her. “I am…a woman who has lived long enough to see what happens when you give the world something juicy to chew on. It does not stop at your hand, Charlotte. It takes the arm. The shoulder. The heart. I will not feed my grandson to that.”
It was the closest thing to a declaration of love she’d ever heard from her.
It hurt anyway.
“I don’t want to feed him to anything,” she whispered.
“Then be careful,” Eleanor said. “And for God’s sake, talk to James. And Henry. And your…Mila. Don’t do this alone. That’s the mistake I made, over and over.”
“You…did it alone,” Charlotte repeated.
Eleanor’s jaw tightened.
“Go,” she said. “You’re late for something. You always are.”
Charlotte hesitated.
“Mother,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For…at least trying to…see me.”
“Don’t get sentimental,” Eleanor snapped. “It doesn’t suit either of us.”
But after Charlotte left, she stood for a long time by the window, looking out over the city she’d spent a lifetime conquering, and wondered when exactly her daughter had become a woman whose judgment she…half-trusted.
***
At ten, Henry was waiting in the small staff café on thirty-nine, a scone in one hand, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose as he scrolled through something on his phone.
“Ah, there she is,” he said as she approached. “The woman of the hour. Or the week. Or the front page, if this goes sideways.”
She sank into the chair opposite him.
“I just had the weirdest conversation with my mother,” she said.
“Did she apologize?” he asked. “Admit fault? Acknowledge your personhood?”
“Almost,” she said.
He choked on a crumb.
“Don’t toy with me,” he said when he’d stopped coughing. “My heart isn’t strong enough.”
“She said…” Charlotte drew in a breath. “She said that while she still thinks telling him now is a terrible idea, she…accepts that it’s my decision. Eventually.”
Henry blinked.
“Who are you,” he demanded, “and what have you done with my sister?”
“I know,” she said. “Apparently you yelled at her yesterday.”
“I did not yell,” he said. “I spoke firmly. With the volume of someone whose hearing is not what it used to be.”
“Same thing,” she said.
He sipped his coffee, studying her.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Like my head is a centrifuge,” she said. “Everything’s spinning. But at least now I’m not…waiting for her to drop the guillotine the second I open my mouth.”
“You never were,” he said. “She likes to pretend she holds all the cards. She doesn’t. Some of them are yours.”
“Like Milo,” she said softly.
“Exactly,” he said.
She picked at the napkin.
“She has conditions,” she went on. “Don’t tell him before the board vote. Don’t give him anything he can use against the company. Don’t be ‘dramatic.’”
He snorted. “Of course.”
“And she suggested…planning,” Charlotte said. “Lawyers. PR. Custody. She wants to…manage…even this.”
“That’s how she feels safe,” Henry said. “Control. Spreadsheets. Strategy. She’s trying—clumsily—to extend that safety to you. It comes out like dictates because she doesn’t know any other way.”
“I know,” she said. “It just…makes me feel like I’m back to being fifteen and not allowed to choose my own shoes.”
He smiled.
“You wore those combat boots anyway,” he reminded her. “To the board Christmas party.”
“And she hid them,” Charlotte said.
“And you found them,” he said. “And wore them with that pink dress. You looked like…a very confused fairy soldier.”
She laughed, surprised.
“You remember that?” she asked.
“I remember everything that made her face crack,” he said. “It’s my favorite hobby.”
Her smile faded.
“I have…six days,” she said. “Less, if you count today. He gave me a week before he starts…digging.”
“And what do *you* want?” Henry asked again.
“I want to tell him,” she said. “On my terms. Not his. Not hers. Mine.”
“Then that’s what you do,” he said. “You don’t wait for a lab result to show up on his lawyer’s desk.”
“But not before the board vote,” she added.
He tilted his head.
“When *is* the vote?” he asked.
“Thursday,” she said. “Assuming we get the last redline nailed down tomorrow.”
“Then that gives you…” He counted. “Friday. Saturday. Sunday. To choose your battlefield.”
“I’m not sure this is…war,” she said.
He gave her a look.
“Everything can be war,” he said. “Or it can be…a conversation. Depends how you go in.”
“And how he reacts,” she said.
“True,” he acknowledged. “He may go…full alpha. Lawyers. Demands. Godfather impressions. But he also might…not.”
“He said he doesn’t want to be his father,” she said before she could stop herself.
Henry’s brows went up.
“He told you about his father?” he asked.
“Not…in detail,” she said. “Just…enough.”
“That’s more than most people get,” he said. “He must trust you. Or be very horny. With men like him, sometimes it’s hard to tell.”
She choked on her coffee.
“Uncle,” she hissed.
He grinned, unrepentant.
“All I’m saying is,” he continued, sobering, “don’t walk into this assuming the worst. Prepare for it, sure. Have your ducks in a row. But leave…room…for him to surprise you.”
“Like Mother just did?” she asked dryly.
“Exactly,” he said.
“You’re alarmingly optimistic today,” she said.
“I had a good scone,” he replied. “And I got to tell Eleanor she was wrong. That fuels me for at least forty-eight hours.”
She shook her head, but warmth settled under her ribs.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?” he asked.
“For…standing between me and her,” she said quietly. “Again.”
He reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
“That’s what uncles are for,” he said. “That and bad jokes at holidays.”
She squeezed back.
“Speaking of holidays,” he added. “If you need to…go to ground for a bit after you drop the truth bomb, you and Milo are always welcome at my place. I’ll stock it with Legos and whiskey. One for him, one for you.”
“Thank you,” she said, throat tight.
She walked back to her floor with her shoulders a little straighter.
If she was going to do this, she might as well do it like she did everything else—prepared.
Which meant step one: call James.
Step two: call a lawyer who wasn’t on her mother’s payroll.
Step three: figure out how to tell a man she’d slept with once that he had a three-year-old son without imploding both of their lives.
No pressure.
***