“Mr. Wilder,Mr. Blake is here to see you.”
Clarice opens the door.
I don’t look up right away. I’m mid-email, and the last thing I want is another pointless interruption. But the way the air shifts—like tension walks in wearing a designer suit—makes me glance toward the door.
Roland.
He looks like hell. Pale. Thin. Still walking stiffly, favoring his left side, his breath coming out in short puffs in the frigid December air. The heavy winter coat he's bundled in—wool, expensive, but hanging loose on his diminished frame—does nothing to hide the toll surgery took on him. Melting snow drips from his shoulders onto my office carpet. His complexion carries the waxy pallor of someone who should probably be in bed, made worse by the harsh contrast against the gray winter light filtering through my windows. Which means this visit isn't casual.
He steps in without being invited and shuts the door behind him.
I sit back in my chair, studying him. “You planning to haunt my office now, or is this a one-time thing?”
His mouth flattens. “I need to speak to Natalie.”
“She’s not here.”
“I’ve tried her phone. It’s off.”
I lean back further. Calm. Cool. The kind of still that makes people uneasy.
“Why are you trying to get in touch with her?”
“I just need to talk to her,” he says, tone clipped.
“And I just asked you why.”
His eyes flick to me, sharp. “It’s personal.”
I smile, slow and deliberate. “Everything involving Natalie is personal. You’ll have to be more specific.”
He doesn’t answer. His fingers twitch on his cane, like they’re itching to be used—either in defense or offense. He’s uncomfortable. That makes two of us.
“You know,” I murmur, “at first, I thought that you wanted her, like a younger trophy girlfriend or something.”
His face grows a bright red. “How dare you?—?”
“But then, I began to suspect that it was something else. You wanted something from her alright, just not what I was expecting. Natalie is naïve enough to believe that all you are seeking is friendship, but I’m not that easily fooled. That first time you saw her, you freaked out. I didn’t see it for what it was, but that is exactly what happened. You saw her, and you heard her name.”
He watches me, his gaze razor-sharp. His mouth tightens. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I smile again. “That’s the thing. I usually do.”
He steps forward, face hard. “You don’t know a damn thing.”
“I know more than you think, Roland,” I say, voice smooth as ice. “You’re not going to congratulate me?”
The sudden change in subject has Roland’s brows knitting. “For what?”
The moment hangs there. I almost feel bad for how good it’s going to feel when I drop this next line.
Almost.
“I’m going to be a father.” The words land with a thunderous thud between us.
Roland blinks. Once. Twice. Then the realization sets in. His entire body tenses. “You got her pregnant?”
“I did,” I reply evenly.
