Chapter 97 Ninety Seven
Kennedy woke before his alarm.
For a few seconds, he didn’t remember where he was. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—too white, too smooth, without the faint crack in the corner he used to stare at in his bedroom at his mother’s house. Then the muted hum of the hotel’s air conditioning grounded him.
Right.
The hotel.
He had returned to the hotel after he sent Sofia away from his mother's house.
He needed to be alone.
He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and inhaled deeply.
His phone lay on the nightstand.
The message from Lucy was still there.
Antonia and the baby have been discharged this morning.
The baby.
His son.
He had stared at that message for a long time the night before. Read it again and again, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less overwhelming.
His son.
He hadn’t gone to the hospital after the transfusion chaos. He hadn’t trusted himself to stand in that room while emotions clawed at his chest. He had sent money. Made calls. Ensured the best care. That was easier. Controlled. Practical.
But now they were home.
And he was leaving.
He stood and walked toward the wardrobe. His suitcase lay open on the small rack, half-packed from the night before. Crisp shirts folded with precision. Dark suits. His laptop tucked into its leather case.
Work.
His company had been calling. Contracts pending. Investors are restless. A decision on the expansion that could not wait. For weeks, he had neglected it, distracted by family drama, buried secrets, and the ground splitting open beneath him.
He needed distance.
He needed control.
He finished packing methodically, zipping the suitcase closed with finality. His flight was in the afternoon. He could go straight to the airport after.
But first—
He paused.
First, he would see his son.
The thought made his chest tighten.
And Antonia.
That thought tightened it further.
He walked into the bathroom and splashed water on his face, staring at his reflection. The bruises had faded .
I’m the father.
Austin’s voice echoed again.
Kennedy shut his eyes briefly.
Today, he would be calm.
Detached.
Civil.
Only about the child.
Nothing more.
\---
Antonia’s apartment door stood in front of him like a quiet test.
He pressed the doorbell.
There was a shuffle inside. Soft footsteps.
The door opened slowly.
Antonia stood there.
She looked smaller somehow.
Her hair was pulled back loosely, dark strands escaping around her face. She wore a simple oversized shirt and leggings. No makeup. No jewelry. Her skin looked pale against the doorway light, and there were faint shadows beneath her eyes.
Motherhood had arrived violently for her.
Their gazes locked.
Silence.
The air thickened instantly.
“Kennedy,” she said softly.
Her voice, hoarse, fragile, did something unwelcome to him.
He nodded once. “Antonia.”
The formality between them felt sharp.
“Can I come in?”
She stepped aside without another word.
The apartment smelled faintly of baby powder and something warm—milk, maybe.
He placed his suitcase just inside the door.
“You’re traveling?” she asked, noticing it.
“Yes.”
A beat.
“For how long?”
“I have some business to attend to. I’ll be back.”
He kept his tone even.
Measured.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the door before she closed it. “He’s in the bedroom. He just fell asleep.”
He followed her down the short hallway.
Each step felt heavier.
The bedroom door was half open. Antonia pushed it gently.
The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in soft afternoon light. A small crib stood beside the bed.
Kennedy stopped at the threshold.
There he was.
Small.
Wrapped carefully in a pale blue blanket.
Sleeping.
Kennedy’s breath caught.
He stepped closer without realizing he had moved.
The baby’s face was round, delicate. Tiny lashes rested against soft cheeks. One hand lay near his face, fingers curled as if holding onto something invisible.
Something in Kennedy’s chest shifted.
This was real.
Not scandal.
Not rumors.
Not betrayal.
Just… life.
His son.
He reached out slowly, hesitating just before touching him. Then his finger brushed the baby’s hand.
The tiny fingers twitched.
Curled around his finger.
Kennedy’s throat tightened unexpectedly.
He hadn’t prepared for this.
He had prepared for indifference.
For restraint.
Not for the quiet, overwhelming surge that flooded him.
Antonia watched from a few steps behind him.
“He looks like you,” she whispered.
Kennedy didn’t answer immediately.
He studied the baby’s features as if searching for proof.
“Newborns don’t look like anyone,” he said finally, though his voice lacked conviction.
She gave a faint, tired smile. “Lucy said the same thing.”
Silence settled again.
Different now.
He pulled his finger away gently and straightened.
“How are you?” he asked, still not looking at her.
She seemed surprised by the question.
“I’m… recovering.”
“I’m glad you’re both fine now,” he said, the words controlled.
She nodded.
“You didn’t come back to the hospital,” she said quietly.
He met her eyes now.
Careful.
Neutral.
“I ensured everything was handled.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Of course it wasn’t.
He inhaled slowly.
“Antonia,” he began, his tone firmer now, “I came to see my son before I leave. That’s my priority.”
The shift in his voice was deliberate.
A line drawn.
She absorbed that.
“I see.”
“I’ll be traveling for a few weeks. When I return, we’ll sit down and discuss co-parenting.”
The word hung between them.
Co-parenting.
Clinical.
Distant.
“As in… schedules?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“And… custody?”
“If necessary.”
Her expression faltered slightly at that.
“Kennedy—”
“I will provide for him,” he continued calmly. “Financially, medically, education. Whatever he needs. But we need structure. Clarity.”
Clarity.
The irony almost made him laugh.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “And what about us?”
There it was.
The question he had been avoiding since he stepped inside.
He looked at her fully now.
Really looked at her.
The woman who had opened his heart to love when he thought it was impossible.
The woman who had carried his child.
The woman who tangled herself in secrets and half-truths.
“There is no ‘us,’ Antonia,” he said quietly.
The words were steady.
Practiced.
“But there were feelings,” she pressed, emotion creeping into her voice. “You came here once to admit that.”
His eyes darkened slightly.
“I did.”
Her breath hitched.
“But feelings,” he continued, “are not enough.”
Her gaze dropped briefly.
“Is this about Austin?” she asked.
His jaw flexed.
“This is about trust.”
She flinched.
“I told you the truth—”
“After how long?” His voice didn’t rise, but it sharpened. “After how many lies?”
Her lips trembled faintly, but she didn’t look away.
“You think this is easy for me?” she whispered. “You think I wanted things to unfold like this?”
“I don’t know what you wanted,” he replied.
And that was the problem.
He didn’t.
He had thought he understood her.
He had thought he knew her.
He had never expected her to do a thing like this.
He took a step back, reclaiming space.
“All that connects us now is him,” he said, glancing at the crib. “And that is enough.