Yet one thing gnawed at him: Jessica refused to depend on him. She accepted his gifts—designer purses from Nordstrom, diamond earrings worth a small fortune—with a nonchalant shrug, as if they were mere trinkets. They meant little to her; she had her own ambitions, her own grind. It drove him wild, especially as he fell deeper, his heart racing like a stock market surge, emotions he wasn’t accustomed to tangling his thoughts.
Their romance burned like a prairie fire—fierce, untamed, consuming everything in its path. Passionate nights in his loft turned into heated arguments over late-night tacos. Jessica never yielded, her independence clashing with his need for control.
One night, after a brutal day negotiating a multi-million-dollar merger, Michael’s stress erupted.
— I’m done with this chaos, Jess. It’s exhausting me. Quit dancing, move in with me, let’s make this real—no more late-night gigs.
She smirked, arms crossed, her eyes catching the city lights outside.
— Oh, really? As what? Your girlfriend? Your kept woman?
He knew this was a losing battle, but his frustration pushed him forward.
— Come on, you know what I mean. Marriage isn’t on the table. You’re a dancer—I can’t exactly brag about that to my boardroom buddies. And let’s be real, I wasn’t your first, was I? My reputation’s at stake.
Her eyes flared with pain and fury, tears brimming.
— Of course not. And I’m not moving in either. A hotshot like you shouldn’t be slumming it with a dancer. Get out—now.
Anger surged through Michael like a storm rolling off the lake. His fists clenched, the world spinning as his pulse thundered.
— Do you hear yourself? I could walk away right now, and you’d be the one regretting it—I won’t beg.
— Who says I’d want you back? You’re just an arrogant suit who thinks money buys everything!
Her words cut deeper than he expected, slicing through his ego like a bad trade. In a blind rage, he lashed out, his hand striking her cheek, the sound sharp in the quiet apartment. He stormed out, slamming the door, his mind a maelstrom of regret and fury as he flagged a cab in the drizzling rain.
Michael headed to a gritty bar in Logan Square, intent on drowning his pain in bourbon shots, the air thick with the scent of fried wings and stale beer, the crowd roaring at a Bulls game on the TVs. Shot after shot burned his throat, but instead of dulling his thoughts, they sharpened his fixation on Jessica—her laugh, her defiant glare looping in his mind like a sports highlight reel. “Why does she get to me like this?” he growled, gripping his glass until his knuckles whitened, ignoring the bartender’s wary look.
The more he drank, the hotter his anger burned, his thoughts racing like the El train above. When a burly patron bumped him, spilling beer on his shirt, Michael lost it. Words turned to shoves, then fists—a chaotic brawl broke out, glasses clinking as tables shifted, patrons chanting “Fight! Fight!” A punch landed square on his jaw, blood trickling warm and metallic, but he swung back, fueled by adrenaline.
Bouncers tossed him into the chilly night, the distant wail of sirens blending with the hum of traffic, streetlights blurring as he stumbled along the pavement. The fresh air sobered him just enough to redirect his rage: Jessica was the root of this mess, this upheaval in his polished life. He hailed a cab and headed to her apartment, the city lights streaking past like accusations, his reflection in the window a haunted shadow.
Using the spare key she’d given him, he slipped into her dark apartment, the faint scent of lavender candles hanging in the air. In the bedroom, a soft lamp cast a warm glow over her sleeping form under the covers, her breathing calm. For a moment, he stood transfixed, his heart pounding with a toxic mix of longing, anger, and regret.
Then, in a drunken haze, he pulled the blanket away. Jessica—or so he thought—fought back, her cries muffled, nails clawing, but he was too far gone, too strong, the room a dizzy blur. Come morning, as dawn light sliced through the blinds, he slipped out, tossing over his shoulder in a hoarse voice:
— Don’t even think about running. I’m not letting you go—ever.
But Jessica vanished, like mist over the lake. Michael pulled every string—hired private investigators with fat checks, questioned club regulars over espressos, scoured police reports and missing persons databases. Nothing.
Weeks bled into torturous months, and he unraveled—sleepless nights in his sprawling bed, barking at colleagues during tense boardroom meetings, his once-razor focus shattered. He’d pace his condo, staring at the twinkling skyline, whispering, “I’d marry her now, damn what anyone thinks. Just come back.” Despair gnawed at him; he toyed with seeing a shrink but couldn’t swallow his pride.
Seven months later, his phone buzzed at 3 a.m., jolting him from fitful sleep.
— Mr. Michael James Carter?
A calm voice cut through the silence.
He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes, heart pounding.
— Yeah, that’s me. Who’s calling at this hour?
— This is Northwestern Hospital’s maternity ward. Do you know a Jessica Marie Larson?
His mind blanked, then clicked, a chill racing down his spine.
— Jessica? Yeah, I know her. What’s she doing in a hospital? Is she alright?
— Could you come immediately? Ms. Larson passed away during childbirth, but she left a letter naming you. She said the baby girl is yours, and there’s a note for you. We’re so sorry.
— A daughter?
Michael froze, the room spinning as if the bourbon had returned. He pinched himself—pain, real.
— I’m on my way.
At the hospital, sterile halls buzzed with beeps and soft cries. A nurse handed him Jessica’s letter, her handwriting raw and heartfelt: “I loved you, Michael, but the pain was too much. Promise you’ll raise our girl like royalty—give her love, safety, all I never had.” Tears poured down his face as he gazed at the tiny bundle in the incubator—his daughter, delicate and perfect. He hadn’t cried since childhood, but this broke him, sobs echoing in the sterile room.
To bring her home, he navigated legal hurdles: a paternity test confirmed his fatherhood. That’s when Clara Bennett joined them, a warm, experienced nanny from a reputable agency, handling everything from late-night bottles to first wobbly steps, her homemade peach cobbler filling the apartment with comfort.
Back in the present, Michael shook off the heavy memories, returning to the bright morning.
— Alright, Sophie, let’s hit the road for your big day.
— Clara, are you coming to school with us?
Clara sighed, brushing flour from her apron, the kitchen fragrant with fresh scones.
— I wish I could, sweetie, but I’ve got a brisket roasting and sides to prep—mac and cheese, green beans. We’re hosting a back-to-school barbecue tonight—hot dogs, lawn games, the whole shebang.
— Oh, right, the big party! Don’t worry, we’ll take tons of pictures and videos for you.
— You better! Go out there and make some friends, Sophie!
Michael and Sophie stepped into the crisp suburban morning, sunlight glinting off nearby condos, the faint rumble of commuter trains in the distance. Sophie skipped ahead, her backpack adorned with glittery unicorn stickers, but stopped abruptly, eyes wide with panic.
— Dad, we forgot the flowers for the teacher! We can’t go empty-handed!
Michael grinned, unlocking his SUV with a chirp, revealing a bouquet of daisies and tulips wrapped in elegant paper on the passenger seat, picked up during his morning run along the lakefront trail—simple yet thoughtful, perfect for the new teacher.
— Got you covered, kiddo. Can’t skip the classics, right?
Sophie flung her arms around him, her face glowing like the city lights.
— Daddy, you’re the absolute best! I love you tons.
He ruffled her curls, warmth flooding his chest. “Who else would I be? You’re my world.” Driving through bustling streets past cozy cafés and joggers in bright gear, Michael felt a rare peace settle over him. Life had dealt him heavy blows, but moments with Sophie made it all worthwhile.
Oakwood Elementary buzzed with excitement as they arrived—parents chatting, kids racing across the playground, the air alive with laughter, the school bell’s chime, and the scent of fresh-cut grass. Michael had debated elite private schools with hefty price tags but settled on this top-rated public one with a stellar arts program after Sophie insisted.
— Daddy, no fancy private school where I don’t know anyone. I want this one with my park friends!
He figured they could reassess later if needed. The morning assembly lined up in the schoolyard, American flags waving beside welcome banners. Sophie pointed out balloon arches and a cotton candy stand, then tugged his sleeve urgently.
— Dad, look! That girl—she’s like my twin!
Michael’s gaze followed, and his heart stopped. A first-grader, holding her mom’s hand, was Sophie’s mirror image—same curly hair, same sparkling eyes, even identical outfits down to the sparkly sneakers and hair ribbons. It was uncanny, like a sci-fi double. He blinked, but she was real, giggling just like Sophie.
— What the hell…?
He whispered, gripping Sophie’s hand, weaving through the crowd toward them.
The girl chattered about her new sketchbook, her mom adjusting her backpack with a familiar poise that tugged at Michael’s memory. His pulse quickened, unease rising.
— Excuse me!
His voice was firm but laced with urgency.