His name was Nathaniel

117

The Donovan Tower boardroom was unusually quiet. The long glass table, always polished to a fault, reflected the late afternoon light pouring in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Nathaniel sat near the head of the table, scrolling through the minutes of the morning's shareholder meeting, trying to focus—but his thoughts drifted.

The doctor's words, Adaliya's worried but brave smile, the tremble in her hands as she promised she was fine. Nathaniel didn't believe in omens, but his gut hadn't stopped twisting since they'd returned from the clinic.

A knock came, sharp and rhythmic.

He looked up. His assistant poked her head in. "Your father's here. He says you agreed to a late-day meeting."

Nathaniel's brow furrowed. "I didn't."

The door opened anyway.

Edward Donovan entered without invitation, his grey suit crisp, his silver cufflinks glinting with each step. Behind him trailed the faintest scent of expensive cologne and a century's worth of tradition. He didn't sit at the end of the table—he took the seat directly across from Nathaniel, like an equal.

Or a rival.

"I hope you don't mind me dropping in," Edward said dryly, though his tone made it clear he didn't care either way.

"You're here," Nathaniel said plainly, closing his tablet and folding his hands in front of him. "What do you want?"

"I heard whispers," Edward said, swirling the amber liquid in the crystal glass he'd brought himself from the lounge just outside the meeting hall. "Something about you missing a few key meetings. Prioritizing... home life."

Nathaniel didn't answer.

Edward chuckled, eyes gleaming with something too calculated to be amusement. "You're young to start slacking."

"I've already overhauled three of your outdated systems and doubled our quarterly projection in under two years. If I'm slacking, your model was broken."

Edward's smile sharpened. "Always so defensive."

Nathaniel leaned back in his chair. "Get to the point."

There was a long pause.

Then: "She's pregnant, isn't she?"

Nathaniel stiffened.

"I can see it on your face," Edward added, leaning forward. "It's not pride. It's fear."

"You don't know anything."

Edward waved a hand. "Don't insult me. You're a Donovan. Our tells are subtle, but they're there. The way you bristle at any mention of long-term planning. The way you've begun declining international travel. Your absence from the Harrington meeting last week."

Nathaniel stared back, expression unreadable.

Edward's voice dropped lower. "This child, if it exists, would be the next Donovan heir."

Nathaniel's hand tightened into a fist beneath the table. "He or she would be a child. Not a pawn."

Edward leaned back slowly. "You're thinking emotionally. It's understandable. That woman of yours... she's made you soft."

"She's made me human."

Edward's gaze narrowed. "She's not of our world. And now you're bringing a child into that? With your condition?" His voice was flat, almost clinical. "Do you really think you'll be around to raise them?"

Nathaniel stood.

"Sit down," Edward said.

But Nathaniel remained on his feet, eyes like steel. "Don't talk about them. Don't speculate about a life you've never bothered to understand."

Edward rose too, and for a moment, the air between them was thick with the weight of years of restrained animosity.

"I built this company," Edward said. "And the world you inherited. If there is a child, they need to be prepared. Private education. International exposure. Early succession training. I can arrange everything—"

"You'll arrange nothing," Nathaniel cut in, voice low and thunderous. "This child—my child—will grow up knowing love, not legacies. Joy, not duty. They will be free to choose who they are. Something you never gave me."

Edward's jaw tightened. "And if you're gone in ten years, what then?"

"Then they'll still have a father who loved them, even if only for a short while," Nathaniel said, breathing hard. "Which is more than I can say for myself."

The silence that followed was deafening.

For a flicker of a second, something in Edward's eyes shifted. Not regret. Not softness. But something close to recognition.

"You're making a mistake," he said stiffly.

"No," Nathaniel replied, voice calmer now. "I'm breaking the cycle."

He turned toward the door.

"Does she know what she's signing up for?" Edward asked behind him.

Nathaniel paused.

"She does," he said. "And she's still here."

Then he left the room, heart pounding, pulse loud in his ears. His father's words chased him like shadows down the hall, but they couldn't catch him—not anymore.

⸻