Chapter 182

Chapter 182
Lily's POV

I stared at Ryan's name for three rings before answering. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine." Ryan's voice was careful, measured. "He just woke up. I thought you'd want to know."

"Thank you." I closed my eyes, pictured William in his crib, those eyes blinking open, searching for me. "Is he—does he seem upset?"

"No. He's..." A pause. "He's fine, Lily. Eleanor's nurse is with him. She's very experienced."

But she's not me, I wanted to scream. She's not his mother.

"Good," I said instead. "That's good."

Another pause, longer this time. I could hear William cooing in the background, that happy babbling sound he made when he was content. The sound I should have been hearing in person.

"Lily—"

"I have to go," I cut him off. "Megan's on her way."

I hung up before he could respond, before I could hear whatever he was going to say that would make this harder than it already was.

The apartment felt too quiet. Too empty. I'd gotten so used to the ambient noise of Silver Peak—staff moving through the halls, the distant sound of Eleanor's television, the soft whir of the baby monitor. Here, there was nothing. Just my own breathing and the muffled sounds of the city outside.

I walked through the apartment, opening closets and cabinets, checking the water pressure in the bathroom, the seal on the refrigerator, the locks on the windows. Practical tasks. Things I could control. When I ran out of things to inspect, I sat on the floor by the window and pulled up the photos on my phone.

Hundreds of them. William at one day old, wrinkled and perfect. William at two weeks, eyes finally focusing. William at one month, starting to smile. William at six weeks, eight weeks, ten weeks. Every stage, every milestone, documented and saved because I'd known—even before the custody hearing, before the divorce papers—that someday I might not have him with me every day.

I scrolled through them slowly, studying his face, the way his features were already starting to shift from newborn to baby to the person he would become. He had Ryan's eyes, everyone said that. But his nose was mine. His chin. The shape of his ears. Little pieces of me woven into this tiny human who would grow up in a mansion, raised by staff and Eleanor's exacting standards, learning to be a Carter heir instead of just being William.

But he'll know me, I told myself fiercely. Three days a week, every week, for the rest of his life. He'll know his mother loves him. That has to be enough.

Except two of those days fell on weekdays. Wednesday and Friday meant leaving work, driving three hours to Silver Peak, spending nine hours with William, then driving three hours back. It was unsustainable. I'd known that even as I'd agreed to the custody terms, but I hadn't let myself think about the logistics until now.

I pulled out my phone and stared at Ethan's contact for a long moment before calling.

He picked up on the second ring. "Lily. Everything okay?"

"I need to ask you something." I kept my voice steady, professional, even though my heart was racing. "About my schedule. I know I just came back, and I know this is a lot to ask, but—" I took a breath. "Is there any way I could work four days a week instead of five? I'd make up the hours, I could work longer days, or take work home on the weekends—"

"Which days?" Ethan asked, cutting through my rambling.

"Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. I have—there's a custody arrangement, and those are my days with William, and I can't—" My voice cracked. "I can't miss them, Ethan. I can't."

Silence on the other end. Long enough that I started preparing my resignation speech in my head.

"And if I say no?" he asked finally. "If I tell you the position requires five days a week, no exceptions—what would you do?"

I closed my eyes. "Then I'd have to resign. I'm sorry. I know you held this position for me, I know I'm asking for too much, but—"

"Stop." He sighed, and I could picture him rubbing his temples the way he did when he was thinking through a problem. "Okay. Four days a week. You'll need to be available for critical meetings via video on your off days if absolutely necessary, and your salary will be adjusted proportionally. Eighty percent time, eighty percent pay. Fair?"

"Yes." Relief flooded through me so suddenly I had to sit down. "Yes, that's fair. That's more than fair. Thank you, Ethan. I—"

"Don't thank me yet." His voice turned stern. "I'm only agreeing to this because your work is exceptional. If you were anyone else, I'd say no. You understand that, right? This isn't charity. This is me recognizing that losing you completely would be worse for the team than having you four days a week."

"I understand."

"Good. Send me a formal proposal by end of day tomorrow outlining how you'll manage your workload with the reduced schedule. And Lily?" He paused. "I'm sorry you're in this position. No one should have to choose between their career and their kid."

After we hung up, I sat there for a long moment, phone still in my hand. Four days a week. Eighty percent salary. It would be tight financially, but it was workable.

See? I told myself. You can make this work. You can build a life that includes both.

But even as I thought it, I knew the truth: I was already exhausted, and I'd only just started.

A knock at the door jolted me out of my spiral. Megan, right on time, looking effortlessly put-together in designer jeans and a cashmere sweater.

"Okay," she said, surveying the dusty apartment with her hands on her hips. "This is worse than I thought. When's the last time anyone opened a window in here? 2022?" She set down her bags and started rolling up her sleeves. "Don't just stand there looking guilty. Grab some trash bags. We're cleaning this place top to bottom before you even think about unpacking."

"Megan, you don't have to—" I started, embarrassment flooding through me. She'd flown all the way from San Francisco just to help me scrub down an apartment that had been sitting empty and neglected for over a year.

"Oh, stop." She was already pulling cleaning supplies out of one of her bags—spray bottles, microfiber cloths, even a pair of rubber gloves. "You owe me so much at this point, what's one more thing? Besides, you still haven't made me that soup you promised. Remember?"

I felt my throat tighten at the memory—that soup Harrison had made for me once when I'd been upset, the one Ryan had later learned to cook himself, practicing until he got the seasoning just right. Stop, I told myself. Stop thinking about him.

But how could I not? We'd been together so long that he was woven into everything—every memory, every habit, every casual reference to something as simple as soup. I'd have to get used to this, to the way he'd surface in the most ordinary moments for the rest of my life.

"So here's the deal," Megan continued, tossing me a pair of gloves. "We clean, we organize, we make this place livable. And then you're taking me out for the most expensive dinner Denver has to offer. Non-negotiable."

"Hey, I just got back to work!" I caught the gloves, feeling the tiniest spark of something like my old self. "I'm broke! You're asking a newly single mom to fund your fine dining habits?"

"Exactly. Consider it therapy." Megan grinned, already attacking the coffee table with a spray bottle. "Way cheaper than an actual therapist, and I come with better commentary."