Chapter 4

I stopped him, my voice icy cold. "Nicholas, do you really think I left you because you didn't pay me enough?"

He said nothing.

I continued, "Do you honestly believe that just because I'm pregnant, I'll come begging you for child support?"

He didn't say a word.

I added, "Do you seriously think the Hayden family is so special that every woman on earth is dying to have your baby?"

He remained silent.

I took a deep breath, pulled the prenatal report from behind my back, and spread it out in front of him.

I pointed at the name on the paper. "Look closely. It says Clara Sanford. This baby is a Sanford, not a Hayden. It's my child, and it has nothing to do with you, Nicholas. Do you understand?"

With that, I turned and walked away.

After a few steps, I stopped and turned back to look at him.

I said, "Oh, and Mr. Hayden, if you ever mention 'giving up custody' to me again, I'll go straight to your law firm and hang a banner outside. I've already got the perfect slogan.

"'Top lawyer Nicholas Hayden, still trying to snatch his ex-wife's kid after divorce.' So, tell me, how long do you think that'll blow up online?"

Nicholas stood in the hallway, backlit, his face hidden in shadow.

But I knew he was mad as hell.

Whenever he got angry, his left ring finger would twitch without him even realizing it. That was where his wedding ring used to sit, now just bare skin.

I ran my fingers over my own empty ring finger and turned to leave.

This time, I walked off feeling even more liberated than the day we got divorced.

I thought Nicholas would finally back off for a bit, but I seriously underestimated how thick-skinned an ex-husband could be.

Three days later, I got a package in the mail, sent from Nicholas's law firm.

Inside was a thick stack of papers, with a cover that said "Child Custody Negotiation Letter."

I flipped through a couple of pages, just wall-to-wall legalese like "child born out of wedlock," "custody rights," "visitation," "child support calculation standards".

It was so packed with jargon that it made my jewelry sketches look like kindergarten doodles.

On the last page, there was a handwritten note in Nicholas's neat, textbook-perfect handwriting.

It said, "Clara, I'm not trying to make things difficult. I want our child to have a better environment. The Hayden family can offer the best education, medical care, and family support. Please think this through rationally. Nicholas Hayden."

I slapped the negotiation letter down on the table and laughed.

A better environment? The best education?

He must've forgotten I grew up in a humble neighborhood. My mom worked a vegetable stall at the market, my dad hauled bricks on construction sites, and I made it through college thanks to scholarships and part-time gigs.

And now, I designed jewelry, earned my own living, and could stand up to Nicholas without flinching.

What did he even mean by "better environment"? Did having money automatically make it better?

I grabbed a pen and scrawled in huge letters across the cover, "Fuck you."

Then I stuffed it back in the envelope, ordered a same-day courier, and had it express-mailed straight back to him.

But that whole thing was like a thorn stuck in my heart.

It wasn't really Nicholas that bothered me. As much as I hated to admit it, he actually had a point.

Being a single mom was no joke. I did my homework. Just in Esodon, raising a kid from birth to eighteen would run at least 700 thousand dollars.

My studio was still in its early days, and even though I had some orders, things were far from steady. I still had the divorce money, but burning through savings wasn't a real solution.

And after the baby was born, who was going to help me out? My mom was back in my hometown, and her health wasn't great. I couldn't put that on her. Hire a nanny? A good one would cost at least three thousand dollars a month.

I lay in bed, resting my hand on my belly, and for the first time, I felt a bit anxious.

I sighed, "Little Bean, looks like your mom's gonna have to start hustling for money."

As I was stressing about money, someone I never expected showed up.

It was my big brother, Harry Sanford.

He wasn't my real brother, just my cousin. But we grew up together, so he was basically family. Harry was five years older than me, and whenever I got picked on as a kid, he was always the one to stand up for me.

Later, he got into a military academy. And after graduation, he joined a top-secret unit. I never really knew what he did. Every time I asked, he'd say, "It's classified, can't talk about it."

When Harry showed up, I was in my studio, sketching away. I heard a knock at the door, opened it, and there he was, a six-foot-one, buzz-cut hulk in a black tactical jacket, hauling two massive woven bags.

"Harry?" I blurted out, totally stunned. "What brings you here?"