BEG FOR ME, BILLIONAIRE

"Mama."

I kept my hands in the warm soapy water. Eyes on the window above the sink, watching the last of the evening light disappear behind the maple trees.

"Mama."

"Mm."

"Do I have a dad?"

My hands went still.

I didn't move. Didn't turn around. Just stood there with soap running between my fingers and that question floating in the kitchen air like something that had been waiting a very long time to finally be said out loud.

I turned the tap off. Dried my hands slowly. Then I turned around.

Eli stood in the middle of the kitchen floor with his triceratops in one hand and his stegosaurus in the other, looking up at me with those grey eyes. The ones I spent the first year of his life trying not to look at too long. He wasn't upset. Wasn't scared. Just asking — the way he asked everything, straight out, no buildup, like the question had been sitting in his mouth all day waiting for a quiet moment to escape.

Five years old and already the most honest person I had ever met.

I crouched down to his level. "Where did that come from, baby?"

"Kieran's dad came to pick him up today." He turned the triceratops over in his hands. "Kieran said everyone has one."

"Everyone does have one."

"So do I have one?"

I looked at my son's face. His wide, patient, waiting face. I made myself look at it properly — at the grey eyes and the jaw and every feature that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with a man I had spent five years trying to make irrelevant.

I was still failing at that.

"Some dads just aren't ready yet," I said. "The job is very important. Not everyone understands that straight away."

He thought about it. Seriously, the way he considered everything.

"Ready for what?" he asked.

"For how much you matter."

He turned that over too. Then he nodded like it made reasonable enough sense and walked back to his dinosaurs.

I stayed crouched on the kitchen tiles after he left. Just for a moment. My knees on the cold floor and my hands on my thighs and five years of a story I couldn't finish pressing against the inside of my chest.

Then I stood up and finished the dishes.

I didn't let myself feel any of it until he was asleep.

Nine thirty. I stood in his doorway watching the slow rise and fall of his chest under the dinosaur duvet. Dark curls pushed sideways on the pillow. The ankylosaur — the brave one he carried everywhere — tucked under his arm where it always ended up by morning.

I went to the kitchen table and sat down.

Five minutes. I always gave myself exactly five minutes because five was enough to feel it without being finished by it.

First came the grief. Not the loud kind. The quiet settled kind that lives in the body — the grief for something that was never really there to begin with. A marriage that was a transaction. A man who looked through me every single day like I was part of the furniture he had inherited and didn't particularly want.

A night I told him something that changed everything.

He laughed.

Then he said three words that I have never — not once in five years — been able to forget.

Prove it's mine.

I never forgave him for that.

I don't think I ever will.

Then the fury came. Older than the grief. Quieter. More settled into my bones. The fury of a woman who asked for nothing except basic decency and got cruelty dressed up as indifference. Who packed one bag on the worst night of her life and walked out of a house that was never a home and never looked back.

Then the exhaustion under both of them. Five years deep. The exhaustion of carrying a story I couldn't put down, couldn't tell and couldn't finish because it belonged to the small boy asleep down the hall as much as it belonged to me.

I pressed my palms flat on the table.

Enough.

I packed it back into the locked room at the back of myself. The one I had gotten very good at walking past without stopping. Then I turned off the light and went to bed.

I was almost asleep when my phone lit up the ceiling.

Unknown number.

I watched it glow in the dark. Counted the rings. Let it go to voicemail.

It rang again.

I turned it face down on the nightstand. Pulled the cover up.

It rang a third time.

I sat up.

Stared at the wall. My pulse was doing something I couldn't quite name — not panic, not recognition, something sitting between the two. Something that felt like the moment before you open a door you already know is going to change everything on the other side of it.

I picked up the phone.

Unknown number.

I declined it.

It rang back before I had even set it down.

I sat in the dark of my bedroom in my cottage, in my town, in the life I had built from nothing — and I felt the thing I had been quietly bracing for since the night I walked away.

He said prove it's mine.

I disappeared.

Five years later, that phone was ringing in the dark.

And I already knew it was him.