Paul pushed open the door to the mayor’s office. The front desk staff greeted him with polite nods, but their eyes darted quickly to the closed office door at the end of the hallway. The mayor’s door was shut but not closed. Voices leaked through—one calm, one sharp. Definitely an argument.
The heat of the conversation hit him first—followed closely by the blast of actual warmth. The mayor’s office was toasty, a little too toasty, as if someone had cranked the radiator out of pure spite. Inside, the mayor stood behind his desk, face calm but tight. Bunny, his fiancée and no doubt the real reason this place ran like clockwork, stood beside him with her arms crossed and her chin tilted defiantly.
Opposite them stood a woman. Her tone was brisk, her hair was tightly twisted into a sleek bun, and her blazer had sharper lines than a legal summons.
“I understand you’ve become attached, but that doesn’t give you the legal right to keep someone else’s child.”
Paul’s first instinct was irritation. His second was curiosity. His third—somewhere between his chest and gut—was wariness.
Could this be the baby’s mother? Upon second glance, he shot that idea down. There was nothing matronly about this woman. She was all hard lines, precise language, and professional detachment. It didn’t track. Then she tossed out a phrase: “parental relinquishment without formal termination of rights.”
She’s a lawyer. Even worse—she was the mother’s lawyer. The one who’d abandoned this baby.
Paul’s hackles went up. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to stop you there.”
The woman turned, one eyebrow raised in icy challenge. Up close, she was striking—high cheekbones, sharp eyes, lips pursed like she had no time for pleasantries. Beautiful, yes—but about as warm as a courthouse hallway in January.
“And you are?” she asked.
“Paul Winters. I’m the caseworker assigned to this child.”
“Perfect,” she said, folding her arms. “Then you can help facilitate the baby’s return to her mother.”
“Actually, no. I can’t. Until the state determines if this was a legal Safe Haven drop or abandonment, custody remains with the state. That’s me.”
The lawyer narrowed her eyes. “The baby was left somewhere safe.”
“Not registered, not documented, no contact info provided. That's abandonment by legal definition until proven otherwise.”
“The mother is remorseful and wants her child back. That should matter.”
“And the father?” Paul asked coolly. “Has he been notified?”
Her nostrils flared. Paul's gaze tracked the movement.
“Can I get his contact information?”
She pursed her lips. Was she withholding the information? But then she answered in a clipped tone. “That’s privileged.”
“It’s also required,” Paul said evenly. “Parental rights don’t just vanish. If the father’s identity is known, we’ll need his consent. Otherwise, the court could consider this kidnapping.”
“I’m not giving you his name.”
“Then you’re obstructing the process that could reunite this child with her actual family.”
Outside the slightly ajar office door, Paul caught movement. A few heads bobbed around the frosted glass panels of the door. The entire office was pretending to work while clearly tuning in. Phones lifted to ears as cover for listening. Someone dropped a pen and never picked it back up.
Paul shifted his stance and lowered his voice slightly. “With all due respect, you can’t bully your way through this process. This child has rights. So does the father, whether you care to acknowledge that or not.”
Her eyes snapped to his, full of fire. “I’m not bullying. I’m advocating. There’s a difference.”
“And you crossed that line the second you walked in here demanding custody without the paperwork to back it up.”
The lawyer squared her shoulders, chin tilted up. “Don't play with me. I’ll build a case that’s going to bury you in motions, objections, and hearings until you choke on your own red tape.”
The air in the mayor’s office felt charged, like a thunderclap had just struck indoors and the static hadn’t settled yet. Paul stood tall, steadying his breath even as the lawyer spun on her heel and stormed toward the door. But something in him—something tight and twisted—snapped. Whatever it was, it made him speak. Sharper than he meant to. Louder than he should have.
“You know,” he called after her, “this whole act might work in the courtroom—but out here? In the real world? No one’s looking for a hero who swings like a hammer and expects people to thank you for the bruises.”
