When I finally stood to leave, the office felt different from when I had entered. Not warmer. Not healed. But altered, as though every polished surface had been forced to reflect something real.
Adrian walked us to the elevator.
He kept his distance, hands at his sides, eyes on Rose.
At the doors, he said, “Clara.”
I turned.
“I know I have no right to ask for anything today.”
“You don’t.”
He nodded. “May I see her again through the proper channels?”
I looked at Rose, then at him.
The answer mattered.
Not because he was Adrian Hartwell. Not because he had money, influence, or a name that opened doors. It mattered because Rose would one day ask who her father was, and I wanted to answer truthfully without bitterness poisoning every word.
“Yes,” I said. “Through the proper channels.”
Relief crossed his face so quickly he could not hide it.
The elevator doors opened.
I stepped inside.
Just before they closed, Adrian said, “I will find out what my father did.”
The doors slid shut before I could answer.
On the ride down, Rose woke and blinked at me. I kissed her forehead, breathing in her sweet, milky scent.
