Chapter 2 - Thirty Minutes
Charlotte’s office occupied the second floor of a narrow building above a florist.
There was no marble lobby.
No private elevator.
No one waiting to take Adrien’s coat.
A woman with silver glasses looked up from the reception desk.
“Name?”
“Adrien Duca.”
“I know. She said eleven.”
He glanced at the clock.
Ten fifty-two.
“I can wait.”
“Good.”
He sat beneath a framed photograph of a wedding reception Charlotte had designed. Candles floated above a table covered in white flowers. In another photograph, a crowded community fundraiser filled a converted warehouse.
Her company’s name appeared discreetly on the wall.
Ashford Events.
He remembered her telling him she wanted to build something of her own.
He had offered to buy her an office.
She had asked whether he understood the difference.
At eleven precisely, the receptionist opened a door.
Charlotte stood behind a wooden desk.
“Sit down.”
He did.
There were no photographs of the children facing him.
He noticed that immediately.
Charlotte folded her hands.
“Before you ask anything, understand this: the boys are happy. They’re loved. Their lives are stable. Whatever you’re feeling does not give you permission to turn their world upside down.”
“Are they mine?”
“Yes.”
The answer was immediate.
No bargaining.
No dramatic pause.
Adrien lowered his eyes.
For a moment, he could not make his lungs work properly.
Charlotte let the silence remain.
Finally, he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her expression changed.
“I did.”
His head lifted.
“I never—”
“I sent a letter to your office. Registered delivery. I called twice. Then I sent a message through your attorney.”
“Which attorney?”
“Stephen Hale.”
Adrien knew the name.
Hale had handled the divorce.
“What did he say?”
“That you disputed paternity, wanted no further personal contact, and would respond to any legal claim through counsel.”
Adrien gripped the chair.
“I never said that.”
Charlotte opened a drawer.
She placed a folder between them.
“I believed you would say that.”
Inside were copies.
A letter in Charlotte’s handwriting.
A delivery receipt.
An email from Hale’s office.
Adrien read the first paragraph.
I found out after the papers were signed. There are two babies. I am not asking you to reconsider our marriage. I am asking whether you want to know your children.
He stopped.
Charlotte looked toward the window.
“I was eleven weeks pregnant when I mailed it.”
“Charlotte.”
“Don’t.”
Her voice did not rise.
That made it worse.
“Don’t say my name like it explains what happened.”
He read the email again.
The language was clinical.
Mr. Duca denies any obligation arising from your assertions and requests that future communication be directed exclusively to this office.
His stomach turned.
“I didn’t authorize this.”
“Then you should investigate your attorney.”
“I will.”
“You should have investigated a lot of things.”
He had no answer.
She leaned back.
“I could have pursued paternity through court. My attorney explained that. I chose not to force contact with a man I believed had rejected us. I was exhausted, pregnant, and trying to find somewhere to live.”
“Where did you go?”
“My aunt’s apartment in Queens.”
He looked up sharply.
“The fifth-floor walk-up?”
“You remember.”
Her tone held no satisfaction.
“Seven months,” he said.
“What?”
“I was told they were born seven months after the divorce.”
“Almost six weeks early.”
Adrien stared at her.
“Were they—”
“They’re healthy now.”
The word now left him with questions he had not earned the right to ask carelessly.
Charlotte continued.
“Owen needed help feeding. Noah spent nineteen days in neonatal care. My aunt stayed with me. Friends brought groceries. We managed.”
We managed.
He had once spent more than their monthly rent on a bottle of wine.
“Can I see them?”
“Eventually, if we agree on how.”
“I’ll do a paternity test.”
“If that helps establish things properly, yes. Through appropriate professionals, with legal advice.”
“I believe you.”
“That’s new.”
He accepted the blow.
He deserved it.
Charlotte looked at the clock.
Seven minutes remained.
“Do they know about me?”
“They know they have a father who doesn’t live with us.”
“What else?”
“That adult relationships can be complicated. That none of it is their fault. That they were wanted from the moment I knew they existed.”
Adrien covered his mouth briefly.
Charlotte watched him without softening.
“I’m not telling you this to punish you,” she said. “I’m telling you so you don’t mistake their happiness for evidence that your absence didn’t cost anything.”
He lowered his hand.
“What do you need from me?”
“For today? Leave when the thirty minutes are over.”
“And afterward?”
“Patience. Honesty. And proof that you can hear the word no.”
When the clock reached eleven thirty, Adrien stood.
He wanted to beg.
Instead, he said, “Thank you for meeting with me.”
Charlotte nodded once.
Outside, he called Stephen Hale.
The attorney answered with professional warmth.
Adrien looked back at the florist’s window, where someone was arranging yellow tulips.
May you like
“Tell me about the message you sent my pregnant wife.”
The warmth disappeared.
