Rachel was quiet for a moment. You really love her. Yeah. Even though she hates you right now? She doesn't hate me.
She hates that I lied. You didn't lie. You just didn't tell her everything. That's what I said. She disagreed.
Give her time. She'll come around. Maybe. Ethan, you just paid for a lawyer to help her keep her kid. That's not nothing.
It's also not enough to make up for lying to her for a month. 4 weeks is not that long. It was long enough for her to trust me, and then I broke that trust. Rachel sighed. You're an idiot, but you're a well-meaning idiot.
That has to count for something. They talked for a few more minutes before Rachel had to go deal with her own kids. Ethan sat in his truck until the sun set, until lights started coming on in windows, until he couldn't justify sitting there any longer without looking like a stalker. He drove home to his empty mansion and walked through rooms that felt even emptier now than they had before he met Clara, before he knew what a real home felt like. His phone buzzed, a text from an unknown number.
This is Sarah Chen. Just wanted to update you on the case. Clara's in good shape legally. Mother's rights termination is clean. No contested issues.
We should have this wrapped up in 60 days, maybe less. Thanks for letting me know. She's a good mom. That kid is lucky. Yeah, she is.
Another text. For what it's worth, she didn't say anything bad about you. Just asked me not to discuss your financial arrangement in front of Lily. That's it? That's it.
Draw your own conclusions. Ethan stared at that message for a long time. Clara wasn't badmouthing him to her lawyer. She was protecting Lily from adult complications. Even pissed off and hurt, she was still putting the kid first.
He fell asleep on his couch again, his phone in his hand, waiting for a message that didn't come. The next 3 days were the longest of Ethan's life. He threw himself into work, approving contracts and inspecting sites, and sitting through meetings where people talked at him about profit margins, while he thought about Claire's face when she'd asked him who he really was. Jake noticed something was wrong on Friday when Ethan picked him up for the weekend. You okay, Dad?
Yeah, buddy. Just tired. Are we seeing Claire and Lily this weekend? Not this weekend. Why not?
Claire is dealing with some stuff. She needs space. Jake absorbed this with the seriousness of someone much older. Did you guys break up? I don't know.
That's a terrible answer. Yeah, it is. Do you want to break up? No. Did she do something bad? No, I did.
What did you do? Ethan looked at his 8-year-old son and tried to figure out how to explain adult relationship dynamics. I wasn't completely honest with her about something, and now she's mad. Did you say sorry? Yeah.
Did she forgive you? I don't know yet. Jake thought about this. Mom says sorry isn't magic. You have to actually fix what you broke.
When did your mom say that? When I broke her vase and said sorry, she said sorry was just words. I had to help her glue it back together before she'd forgive me. Out of the mouths of children, Ethan thought. That's pretty smart.
So, what are you going to fix? I don't know yet. That's the problem. They spent the weekend together, just the two of them. Ethan taught Jake how to use a miter saw in his workshop, supervised while Jake built a birdhouse that was more enthusiasm than precision.
They ordered pizza, played video games, had a completely normal weekend, but Ethan kept checking his phone. No messages. Sunday evening, he dropped Jake back at his ex-wife's house. Jennifer met him at the door, took one look at his face, and sighed. You look terrible.
Thanks. The woman you're seeing? Yeah. What happened? I screwed up.
Jennifer studied him for a moment, then surprised him by saying, Whatever you did, fix it. You look happier than I've seen you in years. Don't let that go. Even if she doesn't want to be fixed? Especially then.
The good ones are worth fighting for. It was possibly the nicest thing his ex-wife had said to him since the divorce. Ethan drove home thinking about what Jake had said. Sorry was just words. He had to fix what he'd broken.
But how do you fix broken trust? The answer came to him Monday morning while he was reviewing architectural plans for a new development. Clara had asked him who he really was. Maybe it was time to actually show her. He pulled out his phone and typed a message.
Can we talk? I want to show you something. The response came 20 minutes later. I'm busy. When are you not busy?
That's not the point. Please. 1 hour. That's all I'm asking. A long pause.
Then, fine. Thursday evening. Lilly has art class, but I but I'm not promising anything. I'm not asking you to. Just give me a chance to explain.
No response to that. Ethan spent the next 3 days planning. Not with money. Money was what had gotten him into this mess. With something that actually mattered.
Thursday evening, he picked Clara up from her apartment at 6:00. She looked exhausted, dressed in the same paint-splattered jeans she'd been wearing the first time he showed up at her door. Where are we going? She asked, sliding into the passenger seat without looking at him. You'll see.
They drove in silence through the city, past the downtown core, into the industrial district. Clara watched the warehouses roll by, her expression unreadable. Ethan, if this is some kind of grand gesture, it's not. Just trust me. One more minute.
He pulled up in front of a massive warehouse, one of his company's main distribution centers. The sign read Mercer Home Industries in letters 10-ft tall. Clara stared at it. This is yours? Yeah.
He led her inside past loading docks and forklifts and pallets of building materials. Workers called out greetings. Ethan waved back, Clara walking silently beside him. In the back corner, behind stacks of lumber and drywall, was his office. Not the executive suite downtown where he held board meetings.
This one. The one he actually used. It was small, cluttered with blueprints and material samples. A battered desk, two chairs, a coffee maker that looked older than Clara. Photos on the wall, Jake at various ages, Rachel's family, his parents before they died.
And on the desk, spread out like a map, were plans. Detailed architectural drawings for an apartment renovation. Clara's apartment. What is this? She asked quietly.
Plans for fixing your building, new pipes, foundation work, proper insulation, windows that actually seal. Everything that's wrong with that place. Ethan I'm not doing it, he said quickly. I'm showing you that I could, that I've been thinking about it since the first time I walked into your apartment and saw how bad the water pressure was. But I'm not doing it because that's not what you need from me.
Clara moved closer to the desk, studying the plans. They were detailed, professional, clearly expensive to create. You had these drawn up? I drew them up. I used to do this before I got stuck behind a desk.
Design work, renovation planning. It's what I actually like doing. These are really good. Thanks. She turned to face him.
Why are you showing me this? Because you You who I really am, and this is who I am. Not the guy in the suit at board meetings, not the billionaire whose name is on buildings. This. The guy who likes solving problems with his hands, who sees a broken foundation and wants to fix it.
Clara's eyes were shiny. You can't fix this with blueprints, Ethan. I know. That's why I'm not trying. I'm just I'm showing you that I see you.
All of it. The broken pipes, the too small apartment, the struggle to make rent. I see it. And I want to help. Not because you're a project, but because I care about you.