The Legitimate Heir

Chapter three

"You've been distant lately, honey. Is something wrong?"

Catherine stands in the doorway of his study in her silk night robe, her arms wrapped around herself. The only light comes from the green lamp on the desk. Walls of old leather books rise around them, and the room is so quiet she can hear the clock on the shelf ticking.

Raymond doesn't look up. He sits behind the desk with his fingers pressed together, his eyes fixed on a spot on the wood. A drawer is open beside him but she can't see what's inside.

"Raymond?"

"Close the door."

She walks softly, shutting the door behind her and the click echoes. "You haven't eaten properly in two days. You've barely spoken to me. Whatever it is, you can talk to me."

"Is there anything you need to tell me, Catherine?"

She blinks and raises her eyebrows. "Like what?"

"Anything." He continues, his voice as calm as can be.

"Anything at all you've been keeping from me."

"I don't understand." A nervous laugh escapes her. "What kind of question is that?"

"Have you ever lied to me?"

"Raymond, you're scaring me. What is this about?"

He lifts his head. His eyes are cold and still, like a man standing at the edge of a cliff. He looks her dead in the eyes for a long moment before letting out a sigh. "Is Alexander my son?"

For one second, nothing moves. Then Catherine lifts her chin. "Of course he is. What kind of question is that?" She steps closer, frowning. "Is this about his drinking? The accident? I know he's been reckless, but you can't just..."

"Look me in the eyes and say the truth.”

"I am looking at you! Jesus Raymond, where's all these coming from?”

He slides an envelope across the desk and it stops against her hand. "Read it."

She picks it up and opens it. Her eyes move down the page and her mouth opens a little. The paper trembles, then slips from her fingers and flutters to the floor.

"Zero percent," Raymond says. "Say something."

"This is wrong." Her voice cracks. "They made a mistake. Labs mix up samples all the time!"

"I took the swab myself." He rises, and the chair scrapes back hard. "Twenty-five years, Catherine. Twenty-five years I have called that boy my son. Whose child is he?"

"Raymond, please..."

"*Whose child is he?*"

His shout rattles the glass in the bookcase. She stumbles backward until her shoulders hit the door. Her whole body, shaking fearfully. She has seen him angry in boardrooms, but never like this, never at her. His chest heaves. A vein pulses in his neck like it's about to burst.

"I don't know," she whispers.

"You don't know?"

"It was one night!" The words burst out of her, and then the tears follow. She slides down against the door, sobbing. "One night, after I found out about you and Tamara's affair.”

The name lands like a slap across Raymond’s face and he goes rigid.

"I was angry and heartbroken Raymond, when I found out that the woman who sat at my table, who held my hand when I cried about not having a baby was screwing my husband the whole time behind my back, I wanted to get back at you…" Her voice breaks. "I was so hurt I wanted to die. I went to a bar and drank until the room spun. A man sat beside me, and I let him. I didn't even know his name, I swear I was not in my right senses and I regretted my actions deeply. I never saw him again Raymond please believe me”.

"And you let me hold that child." His voice drops to a growl. "You let me hold him, name him, love him."

"I thought he was yours!" She crawls forward on her knees and grabs his trousers. "That same week, we had been together. I told myself he was yours, I wanted it so badly. I was too afraid to find out. Please, Raymond, forgive me. I was hurt, I was out of my mind. I have loved you every day since."

He looks down at her, and something inside him cracks. This is the woman he married, the woman who has never knelt to anyone. And all he can see is a baby in a blue blanket, a little hand gripping his finger, a promise he made. A promise built on a lie.

"You hurt me?" An awful, dry and broken laugh escape his lips. "I raised another man's son. I have no child, Catherine. Do you understand? Nothing. I gave my whole life to a boy who isn't mine."

He wrenches his leg away causing her to fall forward on her palms.

"Raymond, wait!"

He storms upstairs to the bedroom and he drags a leather bag from the closet and throws in shirts, a suit, a watch, a charger, folding nothing. His hands shake so hard the zipper jams twice. He rips it shut.

Catherine appears in the doorway, mascara streaking her cheeks. "Where are you going?"

"Away."

"You can't leave. Alexander needs you. I need you."

"I need space, woman." He grabs his keys. "I can't breathe in this house."

She catches his sleeve. "Raymond let's talk this out please, don't leave!”

He peels her fingers off one by one. For a moment their eyes lock, and neither of them recognizes the other. Then he walks past her and down the stairs, and the front door closes behind him with a sound that feels final.

The car eats the road for two hours. City lights thin into black fields. A cold wind shoves at the windows and drags dead leaves across the road. At last he turns into a small hotel at the edge of a sleepy town, its sign flickering pink and blue.

The receptionist looks up from her phone and smiles. "Good evening, sir! Welcome to Nicon hotel, if you don't mind me saying, you have a smile that could stop traffic."

Raymond stares at her angrily, his face frowning. His stern, cold stare made her words dry up in her throat. Her grin falls apart.

"One room," he says.

"Y-yes, sir. Right away."

Room twelve smells of old carpet. He drops his bag, kicks off his shoes, and falls back on the bed without turning on the light. A brown stain spreads across one corner of the ceiling. He stares at it for a long time.

"Twenty-five years," he whispers. "Every birthday. Every Christmas. I taught him to ride a bike. I..." His voice breaks. He covers his eyes with his arm. "Who are you, Alexander?”

Nobody answers. Wind rattles the window. He thinks of the towers, the company, the empire with his name stamped on a hundred buildings. The boy in the hospital bed carries none of it in his blood. A laugh climbs his throat, ugly and cracked, and turns into something wetter. Raymond Wellington, who has never lost a negotiation, lies in a cheap hotel bed and cries like a child.

After a long while, he drags himself into the bathroom and turns the shower to cold. He stands under it in his shirt, teeth clenched, until his skin goes numb. It washes nothing away, but it clears his head enough to hear his stomach growl. He hasn't eaten since yesterday.

Outside, the wind has dropped. He walks along a quiet street with his collar up, past a shuttered pharmacy and a dark church. At the corner, warm yellow light spills across the pavement from a small restaurant. Through the window he sees checkered tablecloths, a few families, and a chalkboard reading Today's Special: Chicken Pie. The smell of fresh bread and pepper drifts out, and for the first time in two days, he feels something close to hunger.

A little bell chimes as he pushes the door open. Warm air wraps around him. He slides into a corner booth, rubbing his tired eyes, and picks up the menu, though the words swim.

"Welcome. What can I get you tonight?"

The voice. A woman's voice, soft, a little husky. His body knows it before his mind does, and the menu stops halfway to the table.

Slowly, Raymond lifts his head.

Her hair is shorter now, streaked with a little gray. There are tiny lines at the corners of her eyes. But those eyes, wide and dark and unforgettable, are the same ones that once looked at him across a candlelit dinner. The same ones that cried the

night she said goodbye.

The pen drops from her fingers and rolls across the floor.

"Raymond?" Tamara whispers.