Page 167 of Say My Name

Then I can tell him about the baby. I took a test this morning. It was positive. You’re going to be a father.

Dominic turns slightly toward the windows while he answers whoever is on the phone. I hear only fragments about a financing schedule and revised terms. He glances back at me to make sure I’m still here.

I should stay.

Instead, I begin imagining everything that will happen once I tell him. He’ll come back because of the baby. He’ll offer support, appointments, and every practical promise because Dominic takes responsibility for the people he loves. If I tell him about Daniel in the same conversation, he’ll want to protect me from that too.

He already told me he loves me. A cold knot forms in my stomach. I’m still afraid I won’t know whether he chose me or the life growing inside me.

I step away from the doorway.

Dominic’s eyes sharpen. His raised finger becomes an open hand.

Stay.

I shake my head and point toward my office as though something urgent is waiting there. The concern on his face disappears behind professional restraint.

I leave before he finishes the call.

I deleted the words this morning, waved through the glass, and now I’ve walked away from his open door.

I had three chances to tell him today, and I let fear answer every time.

Back in my office, my hands are still shaking. I address a blank email to Dominic and type before I can rethink it.

Legal’s confirmation arrives while I’m standing in the middle of my office. Effective immediately, Legal has removed me from Project Northstar and restricted my access to its files while counsel reviews the conflict. It is the correct response. I still read the notice twice before I can make myself close it.

I open a new document and type five headings: PREGNANCY. DOMINIC. DANIEL. WORK. LEAVE.

The grid beneath them should help. That is what grids do. They separate facts from emotion and turn competing risks into decisions.

Under pregnancy, I write that I need prenatal care and that Dominic deserves to know. Under Dominic, I write that telling him now may make every choice he makes look like obligation, even if it isn’t. Daniel means I can’t remain on Northstar. Work means I have other teams depending on me. Leave creates legal distance from the acquisition and gives me room to think, but it also delays the two conversations I most need to have.

I add columns for risk, owner, deadline, and mitigation. Ten minutes later, the document is full and I’m no closer to a safe answer. Every category reaches into another one. Nothing stays contained long enough to solve.

A message from Maya appears beside it.

Maya: The Vantage handoff link is asking me for access.

I check the email I sent her and find the problem immediately. I attached last week’s restricted draft instead of the current approved handoff. No one else received it, and the permissions held, but I never send the wrong version.

I replace the link, verify the recipient list twice, and call Maya to confirm she can open it.

“Got it.” Her voice softens slightly. “Everything okay?”

The honest answer is no. The word sits on my tongue, heavy and impossible.

I’m not incompetent. I caught the error before it affected anyone, and I could probably force myself through the rest of today without making another. That isn’t the standard I expect from anyone whose judgment others rely on.

I close the grid without saving it. A control system can’t make me ready to tell Dominic, undo Daniel’s return, or guarantee what comes after either truth. Staying at my desk while I pretend otherwise isn’t responsible.

I open a blank email to Dominic.

Elena (email): I need to take two weeks of personal time, effective immediately. I’ll complete the necessary handoff before I leave and provide Maya with my emergency-contact information.

His answer arrives less than a minute after I send it.

Dominic (email): Approved. Take whatever time you need.