#####chapter3: Not Every Door Stays Closed

Anita closed the door and didn’t move.

For five long minutes, she stood there in the quiet, breathing air that still smelled like him—leather, mint, and whatever regrets people wear when they show up too late.

Her hands were trembling, but not from fear. No, fear had long been replaced with something colder. More resilient.

She was angry.

Not because he came back.

But because, somehow, he’d still managed to shake the walls she’d spent years building.

“Mummy?” a soft voice called behind her.

Anita turned quickly.

Clara stood in the hallway, hugging her purple notebook to her chest.

“I waited like you said.”

Anita knelt and opened her arms.

Clara ran into them without hesitation.

“Good girl,” Anita whispered into her daughter’s curls. “Thank you for listening.”

Clara pulled back, brows furrowed. “Was that man my daddy?”

The question stabbed deeper than any of Zan’s words had.

Anita hesitated—not because she didn’t know the truth, but because the truth was no longer something she could keep locked away.

“Why do you think that?” she asked gently.

Clara tapped her chin. “He looked at me like Miss Becky looks at her baby. And... and he had my eyes.”

Anita blinked fast.

It wasn’t the first time Clara had asked about her father. But it was the first time she’d done it with certainty.

She stroked her daughter’s cheek. “I’ll tell you more soon, okay? But for now, just know that Mummy loves you more than anything. And that you are so, so special.”

Clara nodded, satisfied for now. “Okay. Can I show him my drawing next time?”

Anita’s heart clenched. Next time.

She swallowed the ache. “Maybe. But only if Mummy says it’s okay.”

Clara gave a theatrical sigh. “Grown-ups and their rules.”

Anita smiled. But it didn’t reach her eyes.

By the time the house was quiet again that night, Anita sat alone in the study, the photo of baby Clara laid out on the desk. Her fingers hovered above it.

She wasn’t sure why she kept pulling it out.

Maybe because it reminded her of who she’d been. Or who she had to become. A woman who learned to rock a crying infant with one arm while typing up pitch decks with the other. A woman who cried in showers and smiled in meetings. A woman who had learned that success wasn’t healing—it was armour.

A knock at the front door startled her.

She glanced at the time—11:47 PM.

Her heart leapt.

No. It couldn’t be.

She opened the door cautiously.

A deliveryman stood there, holding a sealed envelope.

“For Ms. Callister,” he said.

She signed and took it with a guarded nod.

The envelope had no return address. Only one word, written in Zan’s handwriting: “Proof.”

She opened it carefully.

Inside was a copy of a completed DNA form.

Zan’s name was scrawled across the signature line.

He had already done it.

No delays. No games.

She read the timestamp.

Two hours ago.

Anita stared at it, numb. Beneath it was a small folded note.

“I’m not asking you to believe in me.

I’m asking you to believe that Clara deserves two parents who are brave enough to face the damage they caused.

– Z.”

She closed the folder slowly.

He was moving faster than she expected.

And that terrified her more than his silence ever had.

Across town, Zan sat alone in a dim penthouse suite, the lights low, a single photograph of Clara on the table beside him. He had taken a copy from the press kit during her public appearance.

She was smiling in it.

Wild. Innocent. Whole.

The kind of smile he hadn’t worn since his twenties.

He poured himself a drink and didn’t touch it.

This wasn’t about comfort anymore.

He had played games with empires.

Now, he was learning how to lose them.

Two days later, Anita sat across from her legal counsel in a quiet upscale lounge.

“I need clarity on custody laws,” she said calmly, her fingers wrapped tightly around her coffee cup.

Her lawyer looked up, brows raised. “Is he threatening anything?”

“No,” Anita said. “That’s the problem. He’s not threatening. He’s... trying.”

The lawyer nodded. “And that scares you?”

“It unsettles me. I prepared for rage, not regret.”

The lawyer folded her hands. “He has rights, Anita. Especially if the DNA confirms paternity. But so do you. Your history with him, especially abandonment during pregnancy, would weigh heavily in court.”

“I don’t want a court battle,” Anita said. “Clara doesn’t deserve that.”

“Then what do you want?”

Anita stared at her coffee, her voice low. “I want to stay in control. I want to protect her. And... I want to be able to forgive him without losing myself.”

The lawyer didn’t speak for a moment.

Then: “Then be strategic. Not cold. Strategic.”

Anita nodded.

But as she walked out of the lounge and back into the sun, her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

She almost didn’t answer.

But something in her gut told her this wasn’t a mistake.

“Hello?”

A pause.

Then a voice she hadn’t heard in five years.

Not Zan.

Worse.

Her mother.

“Anita. We need to talk.”