Chapter 4Breaking The Script For My Love

We went to a quiet coffee shop nearby. Neither of us spoke until the lattes arrived. I didn't want to play games.

"Do you still want the child?" I asked bluntly.

I had rehearsed this confrontation in my head a thousand times over the years. I was finally numb enough to sound indifferent.

Madeline looked at me, her gaze unreadable. "Of course I do."

I looked out the window at the street signs. "Then make sure you pick her up. If you're too busy for the conferences, let me know. I won't get in the way of you and—"

I couldn't say Victor’s name. The sting was still too sharp.

"—your life."

I stood up to leave. As I passed her, she spoke.

"Is that all you want to talk to me about? Sophie?"

I paused. "What else is there? We settled everything six years ago. You moved on, I took the money. What's left?"

Madeline let out a slow breath, her dark eyes locked on mine. "Fine. Then I don't want her anymore."

The casualness of it floored me. "What are you talking about?"

She gestured for me to sit back down. "Exactly what I said. You want her? Fine. She’s yours. But for the sake of her mental health, I will be coming to your place every Friday night to spend the weekend with her. I'll leave Monday mornings for the office."

It was absurd. It was irrational. "Madeline, we’re divorced."

She let out a dry, sharp laugh. "Are we? I never signed the papers."

I felt the blood drain from my face.

Six years ago, her grandfather had handed me the papers. I assumed she was too disgusted to see me, so I signed them and left. She was saying she never finished the process.

But why wait six years to find me? I wasn't deluded enough to think she still loved me. Maybe the papers got lost. Maybe she needed a formal settlement for tax reasons.

"Fine," I said. "We'll sign new ones."

"No," she said.

"Madeline, let’s just finish this. It’s better for everyone."

"It’s not."

"What is it? Money? Stocks? You can keep it all. I want nothing."

"No."

Three 'no's. It made me angry, but it also felt hauntingly familiar. This was the Madeline I knew as a teenager.

I remembered her eighteenth birthday. A rival of mine had been mocking me, humiliating me in front of the elite crowd. Madeline had walked up and shoved him into the pool without a word.

It was a scandal. The elders were furious. Madeline refused to apologize. Her grandfather had her locked in a study for three days as punishment.

I had sat outside that locked door. "I'm sorry," I whispered through the wood.

There was a silence, then the sound of her shifting, sitting on the other side of the door.

"Go away," she’d mumbled.

"You should have just let him talk," I said. "It didn't matter."

"No."

"Don't be guilty," she’d added, tapping on the door. "I did it because I wanted to. It has nothing to do with you. Don't you dare feel guilty."

Coming back to the present, I felt like I was hearing those words again. Madeline smiled, the light from the window catching the faint dust motes in the air.

"Miles," she said, using my name for the first time. "We are never going to be 'even.'"