Chapter 97 #15: Birthmark
David sits at the same mahogany desk that once belonged to him. He has not changed much here. He has not wanted to. Some things are better left exactly as they were when everything fell apart.
His laptop is open. The screen shows the photo he took this afternoon at the office in the three seconds it took Nora to turn and walk away with the little girl’s hand in hers. He has zoomed in just at the right time.
Lucy.
Four years old. Six years since the hospital room went quiet except for the monitors and the sound of Nora screaming his name until they sedated her.
He studies the photo, looking for the one detail that does not fit.
She looks like Nora.
The shape of the eyes. The curve of the mouth when she smiles. The stubborn set of the chin that used to frustrate him in boardrooms and bedrooms. All of it is Nora. And that is the first thing he had not expected.
The second thing he had not expected was the birthmark.
It is small. A faint crescent moon behind the left side of her neck, half-hidden by the strap of her dress in the photo. He zooms in again. There is no mistake. He has the same mark. Exact placement. Exact shape. His mother used to call it the family crescent when he was a child. She said it proved he was a Reid.
He closes the laptop hard, the sound echoing in the empty office. He stands, walks to the window, and presses his palm against the glass.
He knows Nora married Vincent Calder. He knew the day the announcement appeared in the society pages. He knew when merger talks began between Calder Investments and the remaining pieces of Reid Global. He knew when the board quietly replaced his name with Vincent’s on half the subsidiaries. He pays people to keep him informed. He does not react, at least not in public. He lets them think he is broken.
But he is only waiting.
The plan is simple. Come back, reclaim what is his, sell the pieces that still carry his name and then walk away with enough money to never need this city again. He has not come back for her. He came back for the legacy he built when he was twenty-seven and still believed blood mattered more than board votes.
He doesn’t hate her for leaving him – their marriage ended in that delivery room the moment he took her choice away. Her screams for him to save her son still echo in his head to this day. He does not blame her for walking away after that. He understands.
What he cannot forgive is her marrying his biggest rival and handing him the playbook to his company. The way she smiles in photographs next to the man who has tried to destroy Reid Global since business school.
He had thought the child was adopted.
The doctors had told them both that the damage to her uterus was too severe and it was highly unlikely she’d ever be able to carry a child again.
So when rumours started that Nora had a daughter, he dismissed them. He assumed she had done what wealthy women do when biology fails: paperwork, lawyers, private agencies, and adopted a child with Vincent.
Then he saw her today in the hallway of Calder Investments holding the hand of a little girl who looks so much like her that it knocks the breath out of him.
And the birthmark.
He presses his forehead against the cold glass.
If by some miracle the child is hers biologically – if the child is theirs – then that means she had already been carrying her when she signed the papers.
She hid his daughter from him.
The anger that rises is not hot. It is cold even as he pushes away from the window, returns to the desk, and opens the laptop again.
The photo is still there. He stares at it until the screen saver turns on, then he picks up his phone.
He has three private investigators on retainer. The best in the city. He dials the first name on the list – Calvin Shaw, former federal agent. Discreet. Expensive. And loyal only to the highest bidder.
He answers on the second ring. “Mr. Reid.”
“I need everything on Nora Calder,” David says. “Birth records... medical records... travel history. Everything on the child too. DNA if you can get it. Discreetly. No traces.”
There is a brief silence. “This is personal.”
“It’s business,” he corrects. “But yes. Personal.”
“Timeline?”
“Yesterday.”
He does not hesitate. “I’ll need a week for the deep records. Less for the surface. I’ll start tonight.”
“Good.”
David ends the call.
His thumb hovers over Nora’s name in his contacts. He added it back the day he returned to the city. He had never called. Until now.
He shoots her a text.
《Meeting tomorrow, 10am sharp in my office. We need to discuss the Singapore closing terms before the final wire transfer. Bring the updated projections.》
A few seconds later, he gets a reply
《I'll be there.》
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The elevator doors slide open on the executive floor, and the same young assistant from last time greets me with that practiced smile that never quite reaches her eyes. She leads me down the corridor, and stops at the double doors to David's private suite. She knocks once, then pushes them open without waiting for a response.
"Mr. Reid, Mrs. Calder is here for your ten o'clock."
He doesn't look up from the tablet in his hand. "Thank you, Elise. Close the doors on your way out."
She does, and the soft click echoes in the suddenly too-quiet space. I stand just inside the threshold, holding my briefcase in one hand, with the other smoothing the front of my navy sheath dress.
I realise that I haven't been alone with him in the same room since the morning I left the divorce papers on his desk and walked away. Five years, three months, and seventeen days, if my calendar app is accurate. Not that I've been counting.
David finally sets the tablet aside and looks up. His gaze moves over me slowly, taking in the tailored dress, the low chignon, the nude heels that add just enough height to meet his eyes without having to tilt my head too far.
He gestures to the chair across from him. "Sit."
I do, placing the briefcase between us like a shield. "I brought the revised projections for Singapore. The contingency reserve has been adjusted to nine-point-two percent to account for the latest tariff announcements out of ASEAN. Legal has already signed off on the language for the indemnity clause."
He leans back, steepling his fingers. "Good. Let's see them."
We dive into the numbers. I open my tablet, swipe through slides, point out variances, explain assumptions. He asks precise questions, the kind that used to make junior analysts sweat but only ever made me sharpen my responses. For the first twenty minutes we are models of professionalism – data, timelines, risk matrices. I keep my voice steady, my posture perfect, my eyes on the screen instead of on him.
But proximity is a dangerous thing. Every time he shifts in his chair, the fabric of his shirt pulls across his chest in a way that reminds me of late nights when ties were loosened and sleeves rolled up. Every time he reaches for a pen, his forearm flexes, and my brain supplies memories I don't want: those same arms pinning my wrists above my head, his weight pressing me into the mattress while he whispered commands that made me melt.
I cross my legs. Then uncross them. Then cross them again.
"You're fidgeting," David says, not looking up from the report he's scanning.
"I'm adjusting." I force my hands to still on the table. "The chair is a little hard."
"Liar." He sets the report down and meets my eyes. "You've been shifting since you sat down. What's distracting you, Nora?"
I meet his stare head-on. "The timeline on the escrow release. It's a little aggressive."
He doesn't buy it. He simply waits, that quiet intensity filling the space between us until the silence feels heavier than any words.
I exhale through my nose. "Fine. Vincent banned me from seeing you ever again. No private meetings, no direct contact. Everything has to route through him or legal."
David's expression doesn't change for a long moment. Then the corner of his mouth lifts slightly.
I narrow my eyes. "What?"
He leans forward, his forearms resting on the desk, voice low and amused. "Nothing really. I've just never known you to take orders from anyone."
The words land soft but pointed. I feel heat climb my throat.
"Outside the bedroom, of course," he adds.
I open my mouth to snap back, to remind him that I'm not that woman anymore, that I've built something solid and real with Vincent, that I choose my own path now. But the words stick because he's right. I've spent five years being the perfect wife. I let Vincent set boundaries, make rules, draw lines. I told myself it was partnership. Partnership looks a lot like submission when you stop examining it closely.
And I hate that realization.
David watches the play of emotion across my face, and his gaze softens just enough to make my chest ache. "You used to fight me on everything. Every contract clause, every late-night decision, every time I tried to tell you what to do. You pushed back until I earned your surrender. And now you're letting him dictate who you can see?"
"It's not the same," I say, but even I can tell that my voice lacks conviction.
"No," he agrees quietly. "It's not."
Silence stretches again. I can hear my own heartbeat, too loud in the quiet room. His eyes never leave mine, and in them I see the man who once knew every inch of me, every limit, every secret desire. The man who could make me beg with a look, who could unravel me with a single word.
I shift again, my thighs pressing together under the table. My nipples are tight against the lace of my bra, and I know he sees it. I know he knows exactly what I'm thinking.
David leans in closer, pinning me in place solely with the intensity of his stare.
"Do you want to remember what it feels like?" His dark but steady gaze holds mine. "Just say the word, Doll... and I'll remind you what true submission feels like."