Chapter 1 - “HANDLE IT YOURSELF”
The contraction hit so violently that my knees nearly buckled beneath me.
My phone trembled in my hand as I listened to Rowan’s voice turn colder than the hospital floor beneath my shoes.
“Handle it yourself, Phoebe. Stop being so dramatic.”
Then he hung up.
For several seconds, I simply stared at the black screen.
Another contraction ripped through me.
A nurse rushed toward me with a wheelchair.
“Is someone coming?”
My eyes dropped to the phone.
“Not my husband.”
At thirty-eight weeks pregnant, I sat alone at the maternity entrance with one hand pressed beneath my stomach while warm fluid soaked through my dress.
For months, Rowan had promised he would be there.
He had attended birthing classes.
Bought a ridiculous camera.
Made a playlist.
He had even practiced breathing exercises with me while laughing so hard we both nearly fell off the bed.
Then his mother, Selina Mercer, scheduled her sixtieth-birthday dinner for the same week as my due date.
Not just dinner.
A private room.
Champagne.
A custom Cartier watch Rowan had spent months pretending we could afford.
When I called him that evening, music and laughter filled the background.
“Rowan, my water broke.”
A pause.
Then:
“Tonight?”
I almost laughed.
“No, Rowan. Next Thursday. I’m calling recreationally.”
“Phoebe…”
“The contractions are four minutes apart.”
Before he answered, Selina’s voice drifted through the phone.
“Tell her women have been giving birth for thousands of years.”
Rowan laughed.
Actually laughed.
“See? Mom gets it.”
My chest went cold.
“Come to the hospital.”
“Mom’s cake hasn’t even been served.”
I said nothing.
Then he added:
“Call a cab.”
That was the moment something inside me stopped begging.
“All right.”
“Phoebe—”
“Enjoy the cake.”
I ended the call.
Then I called the one person I had avoided calling for almost two years.
My father.
He answered after one ring.
“Phoebe?”
I took one shaky breath.
His voice changed instantly.
“Where are you?”
“St. Catherine’s.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m in labor.”
Silence.
Then:
“I’m coming.”
Twenty minutes later, Gideon Sterling walked into the maternity ward wearing an old gray coat.
No driver.
No assistant.
No security.
Nothing suggesting financial newspapers routinely printed his photograph beside words like founder, chairman, and billionaire investor.
Rowan knew exactly who Gideon Sterling was.
Everybody in finance did.
He simply did not know Gideon Sterling was my father.
After my mother died, I had started using her surname—**Hayes**—professionally.
Partly because I loved her.
Partly because I spent my twenties wondering whether anyone saw Phoebe or simply saw Gideon Sterling’s daughter.
When Rowan and I met, I never lied.
I told him my father and I were estranged.
I told him my mother had left me enough money for college.
I told him I wanted nothing to do with family wealth.
What I did not volunteer was my father’s name.
Then Rowan began making jokes about wealthy heirs.
“Trust-fund parasites.”
“People born on third base.”
I should have told him.
Instead, I stayed silent.
Then Selina once asked what my father did.
I answered:
“He’s mostly retired.”
She smirked.
“So an unemployed old salesman?”
I let her believe it.
Pride makes stupid decisions look principled.
That night, Dad sat beside me for fourteen hours.
He held my hand.
Held water to my lips.
Let me scream at him.
At one point I told him I hated him.
He answered:
“You said worse when you were thirteen.”
At 4:17 a.m., my son entered the world.
Leo Hayes Mercer.
Seven pounds, two ounces.
A full head of dark hair.
Perfect furious lungs.
Dad held him like he was made of light.
Tears slid down his face.
“He’s perfect.”
I watched them together.
My father and my son.
And somewhere inside me, the final fragile thread tying me to my marriage quietly snapped.
Then my phone lit up.
Rowan.
Mom loved the watch I bought her. Coming home Monday. Don’t start another fight.
I took a screenshot.
Not because I was planning revenge.
Because I was a forensic accountant.
And I had spent enough years learning that memory becomes debatable.
Records do not.
Three days later, I was home.
Dad had stayed because I was recovering from a difficult delivery and barely sleeping.
At 2:18 Monday afternoon, Rowan unlocked the front door.
“Phoebe?”
No answer.
He entered the living room.
Stopped.
Dad sat in the armchair near the window with Leo sleeping against his chest.
Rowan’s face went white.
“Mr. Sterling?”
Dad looked up.
“Rowan.”
Rowan’s eyes moved from my father—
to Leo—
to me.
“Phoebe…”
His voice dropped.
“Why is Gideon Sterling holding my son?”
Dad adjusted the blanket around Leo.
Then he said six words.
“Because Phoebe Sterling is my daughter.”
Rowan stopped breathing.
And the expression on his face told me something deeply uncomfortable.
For the first time since I went into labor—
my husband finally understood that abandoning me might cost him something.
May you like
That realization made me colder than his absence ever had.
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