A multi-million-dollar deal was supposed to be the most important thing on my mind that night, until I looked across a Chicago steakhouse and saw my ex-wife clearing wineglasses with a baby strapped to her chest. Then one question escaped my mouth before I could stop it: “Is she mine?”

The town car tracked her for twenty blocks all the way to a modest, weather-beaten brick apartment building in a quiet, working-class neighborhood on the near West Side. The paint was peeling around the window frames, and a flickering streetlamp cast long, skeletal shadows across the concrete steps.

I stepped out of the car, ignoring Marcus’s cautious protest.

“Wait here,” I commanded, pulling my coat tighter against the wind.

I watched from the shadows across the street as Elizabeth fumbled with her keys, her shoulders visibly sagging under the weight of the baby bag slung over one shoulder and the child resting against her chest. The baby was awake now, letting out a soft, plaintive cry that pierced the quiet night air. Elizabeth immediately paused, pressing her cheek against the infant's head, murmuring soothing lullabies until the crying subsided.

The sight twisted something deep inside my gut.

How many nights had she done this alone? How many shifts had she pulled on her feet, serving arrogant men like the version of me I used to be, just to put formula on the table and pay rent in this dilapidated building?

She pushed the heavy front door open and disappeared inside.

I crossed the street, my leather shoes clicking sharply against the pavement. I entered the lobby just as the inner door clicked shut. The hallway smelled of old floor wax, damp coats, and fried onions. I checked the mailboxes near the entrance.

Apartment 3B. E. Vance.

Vance. She had dropped my last name the very day the divorce was finalized.

I didn't go up. Not yet. I wasn't a coward, but looking into Elizabeth's eyes right now, knowing the full scale of the destruction I had unleashed upon her life, required a courage I wasn't sure I possessed. Instead, I walked back out to the car, my mind racing with a desperate, frantic energy that hadn't driven me since my early days on Wall Street.

“Find out who owns this building, Marcus,” I said as I climbed back into the leather seat.

“Sir?”

“Buy it,” I ordered, my voice dropping into the cold, ruthless register that usually made corporate boardrooms tremble. “Buy the building. And I want a full investigative report on Elizabeth Vance—her employment, her medical records, her living situation—on my desk by 8:00 AM tomorrow.”

Marcus turned around, his eyes wide with surprise, but he knew better than to argue. “Right away, Mr. Sterling.”