The Offer

[ALESSIA'S POV]

I didn't  move.

Mr. Seaman stands between me and the door like a wall made of money and power.

"I'm tired," I say. "Whatever you want to say can wait."

"No. It can't."

He gestures toward the sitting area in the corner of the lobby. Leather chairs. A glass table. The kind of space designed to make people feel small.

"I'd rather stand."

"Suit yourself." He doesn't sit either. Just stands there, studying me like I'm a problem he needs to solve. "You're making a mistake."

"That's the second time I've heard that today."

"Then maybe you should listen."

I adjust my grip on the suitcase handle. "Say what you came to say, Mr. Seaman. I have somewhere to be."

"Your mother's apartment in East LA?" He tilts his head. "One bedroom. Questionable heating. Not ideal for a newborn."

My stomach drops. "Have you been following me?"

"I make it my business to know things." He takes a step closer. "Especially when it concerns my grandchild."

"Your grandchild?" I repeat. "You didn't care about this baby when I married Edward. You told him I was a mistake. That I'd drag down the family name."

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to. I saw it in your face every time you looked at me. Every family dinner. Every event. I was never good enough."

He's quiet for a moment. Then: "You're right."

The admission catches me off guard.

"I didn't think you were the right fit," he continues. "You came from nothing. No connections. No family money. Just a news anchor with ambition." He pauses. "But you proved me wrong."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"It's supposed to make you think." He straightens his cuffs. "You're stronger than I expected. Smarter. You've built a career without my help. Without my name. That takes guts."

"Get to the point."

"The point is this: you're filing for divorce. Edward will fight it. And when he does, the media will paint you bad. They'll call you unstable, A gold digger. They'll say you're using the baby as leverage."

"Let them."

"They'll destroy your career, Your reputation and Everything you worked for." He leans in slightly. "Unless you play this smart."

"And what does smart looks like to you?"

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded document.

"This is an agreement. You keep the baby. We give you five million dollars. Enough to raise him comfortably. Enough to disappear if you want to."

I stare at the paper. "You're trying to buy my son."

"I'm trying to protect him. And you." He holds it out. "Take the money. Raise the child however you want. No interference from us. No custody battles. No media circus."

"In exchange for what?"

"You sign away Edward's parental rights. Quietly. No drama. No headlines."

The baby kicks hard against my ribs.

I take the document.

Mr. Seaman smiles.

Then I rip it in half.

His smile disappears.

"I don't want your money," I say, dropping the pieces on the floor. "And I don't need your protection."

"You're making a mistake."

"So you keep saying." I step around him. "But here's the thing, Mr. Seaman. I'm not scared of you. I'm not scared of Edward. And I'm definitely not scared of the media."

"You should be."

"Why? Because you'll ruin me?" I stop at the door and turn back. "You can't ruin someone who has nothing to lose. I don't need your family. I don't need your money. All I need is my baby. And you'll never take him from me."

"I could," he says quietly. "I have the best lawyers in the country. I could prove you're unfit. Unstable. A single mother with no support system."

"Try it."

The words hang in the air between us.

For the first time, I see something flicker across his face. Not anger. Something else.

Respect or Fear?

I can't tell.

"You really think you can win against me?" he asks.

"I don't need to win. I just need to survive." I push the door open. Cold air rushes in. "And I'm very good at surviving."

I walk out before he could respond.

The rain has stopped, but the streets are still wet. 

I drag my suitcase toward the curb and pull out my phone.

Three missed calls from my mother.

Two voicemails from the station.

One text from a number I don't recognize: I can help you. Meet me tomorrow. 10 AM. Riverside Café. – Jeffrey

Jeffrey???

I haven't thought about him in years.

We went to college together. Same journalism program. He was quiet, focused, always the first one to volunteer for the hard stories. And he had a crush on me—everyone knew it except maybe me.

I stare at the text.

How does he even have my number? How does he know what's happening?

Another text comes through: I know what you're going through. I saw the news. You don't have to do this alone.

The taxi pulls up before I can respond.

The driver loads my suitcase into the trunk.

"Where to?" he asks.

I look back at the building. Edward's probably still upstairs. Mr. Seaman is probably still standing in that lobby, furious that I turned him down.

Good.

Let them be furious.

"East LA," I tell the driver. "And take the long way."

He nods and pulls into traffic.

I rest my hand on my belly and stare out the window.

Buildings blur past.  People rushing home. The city keeps moving like nothing happened.

Like my entire life didn't just fall apart.

My phone buzzes again.

Edward: Please come home. We can fix this.

I don't respond.

Instead, I open Jeffrey's message and type: I'll be there.

Hit send.

Then I turn off my phone and close my eyes.

Tomorrow, I'll deal with Jeffrey.

Tomorrow, I'll figure out what comes next.

Tonight, I just need to breathe.

The taxi stops at a red light.

I open my eyes and see my reflection in the window.

Seven months pregnant. Alone. Running from a family that wants to control me.

But still here.

Still fighting.

The light turns green and we drive on.