The Boy at the Door
Cynthia didn’t sleep.
She lay in the massive gray bed, staring at the ceiling while shadows crawled across the walls. The silence in Caleb’s penthouse was oppressive, no humming appliances, no creaking floors. It felt like a tomb built for two people pretending to be alive.
Her body ached from the stiffness of standing all day in heels, but her thoughts ached more. She replayed the ceremony in her head, the press flashes, the cold weight of the ring on her finger. It wasn’t the wedding she’d dreamed of, it was a transaction. A sacrifice.
And Caleb hadn’t even looked at her like a person.
She rose at dawn, pulled on one of the silk robes left in the closet, still in its packaging, like it belonged to someone else and padded barefoot into the penthouse kitchen. The space was sleek, all dark marble and matte black steel. Nothing personal. No photos, no clutter. No soul.
Just like him.
She made coffee out of habit, not because she wanted any, and stared out at the skyline while the city yawned awake below.
He walked in ten minutes later.
Caleb. Shirtless. Still damp from the shower. A towel draped over his shoulder, dark trousers slung low on his hips. He paused at the sight of her, then moved like she was a painting on the wall, something to be glanced at, not engaged with.
“You’re up early,” he said, grabbing a glass from the cabinet.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He didn’t ask why.
She turned slowly. “Where were you last night?”
“I had a meeting.”
“At midnight?”
He poured water and took a long sip before answering. “You’ll find that my business hours don’t follow your logic.”
She stepped closer. “You’re hiding something.”
A muscle flicked in his jaw. “I hide a lot of things. You’ll sleep better not knowing most of them.”
“I’m already not sleeping.”
He met her eyes finally. His were unreadable, like polished obsidian. “Then we’re even.”
She swallowed. “Why the rush, Caleb? Why three months? Why me?”
He didn’t move. “Because your father stole fifteen years of my life. I intend to reclaim every second—through you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting right now.”
The words burned. She looked at the ring on her finger, then back at him. “What happens when three months are over?”
“Depends,” he said. “On whether I get what I need.”
Before she could ask what that meant, the elevator chimed.
Caleb’s head turned. “I didn’t authorize visitors.”
Cynthia blinked. “You live in a penthouse with biometric security.”
“Exactly,” he said, already moving toward the elevator.
The doors opened before he reached them.
A woman stepped out.
Slender, poised, in a white designer suit that hugged her frame like it had been stitched for seduction. Her red lipstick was perfect. Her heels clicked like gunfire on the marble floor.
And beside her, clutching a small stuffed lion and staring wide-eyed at the space around him, was a little boy.
Cynthia’s stomach dropped.
The woman’s eyes landed on her. Then flicked to Caleb. Her smile was sharp as a blade.
“Caleb,” she purred. “It’s been a while.”
He stood very still. “Liliana.”
Cynthia felt the room shift. Like the temperature dropped ten degrees.
Liliana crossed the floor with the grace of a predator. The boy stayed behind her, silent, watching.
“Congratulations,” she said, nodding toward Cynthia. “Though I admit, I expected your taste to stay consistent.”
“Why are you here?” Caleb asked, voice flat.
“Because you’ve ignored my calls. And emails. And legal notices.”
“What legal notices?”
She turned and scooped the boy gently toward her. “Meet Dylan. Your son.”
Cynthia took a step back. “What?”
Liliana’s voice didn’t waver. “He’s five. Conceived a month before our divorce was finalized. I didn’t know until after I left. I raised him alone, because I didn’t want to use him to win you back. But now…” Her eyes flicked to Cynthia. “Now you’ve given me no choice.”
Caleb’s face was blank. But his eyes, his eyes were wild.
“There’s no way,” he said. “That’s impossible.”
“I had a paternity test,” Liliana said. “You’re welcome to get your own. In fact, I encourage it.”
She handed him a folder from her sleek white purse. Caleb didn’t take it.
“I don’t want anything from you,” she said softly. “I just want what belongs to Dylan.”
Cynthia couldn’t speak. Her throat had closed, her thoughts a storm. A son? A child he never mentioned? And now this woman, his ex-wife was standing in their home like she’d never left?
Liliana smiled at her again. “He didn’t tell you? How odd. Caleb’s always been the secretive type.”
Caleb turned to her then, Cynthia. And for a second, she thought she saw something in his face. Not guilt. Not panic.
Fear.
But it vanished quickly.
“Leave the folder,” he said. “You’ll hear from my lawyer.”
Liliana tilted her head. “Oh, I know. But in the meantime, I want to file for inheritance rights. Dylan deserves his father’s name and a piece of his legacy.”
She took Dylan’s hand, turned, and walked back toward the elevator. Before stepping in, she paused and looked over her shoulder.
“Tell me, Caleb, does your new wife know you’re dying?”
The doors closed. Silence fell like a guillotine.
Cynthia turned to him. “Is it true?”
Caleb didn’t answer. He turned and walked away.
