Page 24 of Say My Name

I can picture Elena at my kitchen counter in the morning, a child’s cup beside her coffee, her expression softening as she watches small hands leave fingerprints on the cabinet she just wiped clean. I can see our calendars crowded with school plays and doctor’s appointments. When I imagine being a father, Elena is already there.

I want the whole thing—the responsibility, the exhaustion, and Elena in my life through all of it.

The fact that I want her makes the offer more dangerous. I’m still her boss. My name is on the building, and my authority gives every request weight whether I intend it or not. After what she told me about her ex, I would be a selfish bastard to ignore that.

I read through the notes from counsel again and write one sentence at the bottom.

Rule one: Her answer costs her nothing.

If Elena rejects the offer, nothing changes for her here—not her title, her authority, or her future. I will hear her answer once, accept it, and I will not make her manage my disappointment afterward.

Only then do I decide I can ask.

Most of the executive floor is dark when I leave my office that evening. Elena’s is the exception.

She sits behind her desk with her jacket draped over the back of her chair and a report open in front of her. One shoe hangs from her toes beneath the desk while she reads.

I stop in the executive kitchen and make the tea she orders when she works late. By the time I tap my knuckles against her open door, both shoes are back on.

“If you brought another revision request, I’m leaving without notice.”

I set the cup on the clean corner of her desk. The tension in her shoulders eases slightly. “You’d come back tomorrow to correct whoever replaced you.”

“I’d wait until Monday. I have boundaries.”

She takes a cautious sip, then looks at the cup. “You made it right.”

“Try to contain your surprise.”

“I’ve never seen you make anything in that kitchen.”

“You haven’t been paying enough attention.”

The corner of her mouth lifts, but the smile fades when she looks from the tea to me. “Why are you still here?”

“I had work.”

“Your last call ended at six. Our offices share a wall.” She sets down the cup. “This is about the binder.”

Her voice turns careful. I stay near the door.

“Yes.”

“We already discussed it.”

“I’m not going to argue with your decision.”

“That sounds suspiciously like the opening statement in an argument.”

“Then I need a better opening.”

She waits, her expression unreadable. I’ve argued down valuations with entire companies on the line and felt less exposed than I do now.

“Would you consider a known donor?” I ask. “Someone whose medical history you can verify and whose involvement is agreed on from the beginning.”

Her fingers tighten around the cup. “Involvement?”

“A co-parent.”