“Think about it.”
“Richard. Yesterday had nothing to do with that.”
“No. It didn’t. But you thought it could have.”
I hold his gaze.
I don’t want this fight. Not in court. Not dragged out and dissected. But if it comes to that, I won’t hesitate.
“If I believe she’s in danger—if the security I have in place isn’t enough—I’ll consider it. But if it comes to that, you’ll need to have security too.”
“She’s safer at my house. And you wouldn’t even give me fall break.”
Of course he’s still sore about fall break, but I don’t take the bait. “Is she safer at your house?” My voice softens, but there’s no give in it. “Tell me, Richard—how long are your naps these days?”
The question lands exactly the way I want it to—yes, if he brings this into court, I’ll find a way to mention yesterday’s events.
His mouth tightens, his gaze shifting toward the window. When he turns, there’s an anger simmering that I haven’t sensed in years. “Let’s talk about your naps. I don’t want the details on Delacroix. I suspected?—”
“At the time you didn’t care,” I say, filling in the blank for him. After I had Stella, he began working round the clock—and we both know it wasn’t all office-related.
He presses his lips together, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s in the past.”
Of course it is.
“But now—you’re living with a man? What is he? Black? Hispanic? In the same house as my daughter?”
The air punches out of me. For a second, all I hear is the hum of the HVAC, the dull thud of my heartbeat.
“Since when are you racist?” I ask, each word precise.
“I’m not racist,” he snaps. “I’m concerned for our daughter. What will her friends say?”
I stare at him.
“Listen to yourself, Richard.”
The argument isn’t worth dignifying. We live in a part of DC where no one blinks at a multiracial couple. This isn’t about Stella. It’s about him.
And if I’m being honest—it wouldn’t matter who I was seeing. He’d find a problem with it.
Still…something in the way he said Delacroix twists at the edge of my thoughts. I would have sworn he had no idea back then.
He exhales sharply, tipping his head back.
“Damn it, Alicia.” With that, he steps to the door, but stops, with his hand on the knob. “And for the record, I didn’t know about Delacroix. Even when the detective insinuated, I didn’t believe it—but you just confirmed it.” Under his breath, he adds, “I should’ve fought harder for her. Maybe then she wouldn’t be growing up in your mess.”
He’s out of the room before I can snap that he would’ve been welcome to try, but I would’ve fought back tooth and nail.
I exit the office and stand at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister, pulse thrumming in my throat, listening to the echo of the slammed front door fading into silence.
Noah appears at the bottom of the stairs, tension etched across his face.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I will be.” My voice sounds foreign—steady when I feel anything but.
He starts up toward me, slow, deliberate steps. “What happened?”