Chapter 9 - THE FATHER WHO CHOSE HIM
Lorenzo's letter wasn't about money.
That was why it mattered.
Adrian read it alone first.
Then he gave it to Eleanor.
She cried before finishing the first page.
Lorenzo had known.
Not suspected.
Known.
He'd secretly arranged a DNA test when Adrian was six months old.
Marcus was Adrian's biological father.
Lorenzo knew with certainty.
Yet he'd destroyed his copy of the test.
He wrote:
A father isn't the man who wins a biological argument. A father is the man who gets up when the child cries.
Adrian stopped reading.
His hands shook.
I sat across from him.
He continued.
Marcus gave you life. I will never hate him for that. Eleanor gave me the choice to leave. I chose you. If anyone ever tells you that makes you less my son, understand that they are insulting me, not you.
Adrian covered his mouth.
I looked away.
Some grief deserves privacy even when it happens in front of you.
Lorenzo had written the letter because Camilla discovered the truth.
He feared his sister might eventually use it against Adrian.
She had.
Just decades later.
Eleanor had lied when she told Adrian Lorenzo never took a DNA test.
“Why?” Adrian asked her.
“Because I wanted you to believe he never needed certainty.”
“But he did.”
“Yes.”
“And he chose me anyway.”
“Yes.”
A strange expression crossed Adrian's face.
Relief.
Pain.
Love.
All at once.
Marcus came to Valenti House the following week.
I wasn't present for most of their conversation.
I saw him afterward.
Adrian walked him to the door.
They didn't hug.
Life isn't always that neat.
Marcus said:
“I don't expect you to call me Dad.”
Adrian answered:
“Good.”
Marcus almost smiled.
Then Adrian added:
“But maybe dinner sometime.”
That was enough.
The legal cases moved slowly.
Victor cooperated.
He admitted switching Eleanor's medication under Vivian's instructions.
Vivian claimed Camilla manipulated her.
Camilla claimed she had been protecting Lorenzo's legacy.
Prosecutors were unimpressed by everyone's self-description.
Cross Meridian's assets were frozen.
Most of the transferred money was recovered.
The fraudulent prenup was voided.
Three compromised board members resigned.
And Eleanor recovered enough to return home.
As for me—
I tried to resign.
Adrian stared at my letter.
“No.”
“You can't say no to a resignation.”
“I just did.”
“I almost got killed working here.”
“You cut your arm.”
“My apartment was searched.”
“Fair.”
“Your former fiancée threatened me.”
“Also fair.”
“Your aunt helped commit corporate fraud.”
“Unfortunately true.”
“Your security chief replaced heart medication with calcium.”
He leaned back.
“When you summarize it, this does sound like a bad workplace.”
I laughed despite myself.
Then he became serious.
“What do you want, Sophie?”
Nobody had asked me that in years.
Not what I needed.
What I wanted.
I thought.
“I don't want to clean houses forever.”
“Then don't.”
“I can't magically become qualified for something else.”
“No.”
He nodded.
“But you can become qualified.”
I eventually enrolled in a healthcare administration program.
Part-time.
I continued working at Valenti House while studying, but my duties changed.
Eleanor insisted I become her household care coordinator.
“I need someone willing to tell important people no,” she said.
Apparently I had demonstrated the qualification.
Adrian offered to pay tuition.
I refused.
He created an employee education fund instead.
Available to everyone.
That I accepted.
There was something else growing between Adrian and me.
Neither of us named it.
Not then.
Four days before his wedding, I'd stepped between him and the woman he intended to marry.
That didn't mean I should step directly into her place.
I didn't want to become Vivian's accusation.
The maid waiting for the rich man.
So Adrian did something I respected.
Nothing.
He didn't pursue me.
Didn't buy gifts.
Didn't turn gratitude into romance.
He let me build a life that wasn't dependent on him.
A year passed.
Then another.
And only after I finished my program and left domestic employment entirely did Adrian ask:
“Would dinner be inappropriate now?”
I thought about it.
“Probably.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
I smiled.
“Seven?”
He stared at me.
Then laughed.
May you like
“Seven.”
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