Chapter 185

Chapter 185
Lily's POV

Three months later, I'd built something that looked like a life.

My workspace was by a window overlooking the street, with two monitors and a mechanical keyboard that clicked satisfyingly with each keystroke. The work was challenging, absorbing—exactly what I needed to keep my mind occupied during the hours when I couldn't be with William.

I'd solved the bottleneck in Atlas Phase 2's data model within my first two weeks back, implementing a new algorithm that improved system efficiency by thirty-five percent. The team had applauded during the next sprint review. Ethan had pulled me aside afterward, eyes warm with approval: "This is exactly why we needed you back. You see patterns no one else catches."

It felt good. Better than good. It felt like remembering who I was before I'd become Mrs. Carter, before I'd convinced myself that being a wife and mother was enough.

But Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, I drove to Silver Peak.

The routine never varied: arrive at nine, park by the East Wing entrance, take the stairs two at a time to the nursery where William would be waiting. In the beginning, he'd cried when I left. That terrible, heartbroken wail that followed me down the hallway, into the car, all the way back to Denver. But as the weeks passed, he'd adjusted. Babies were resilient like that. Now he'd cry for a minute or two after I left, then settle with whoever was holding him—Eleanor's nurse, or the nanny, or sometimes Ryan himself.

I told myself it was good that he was adjusting. That he was learning he was safe even when I wasn't there. But late at night, alone in my apartment, I wondered if he was also learning that mothers were temporary, that love came in nine-hour increments, that the person who'd carried him and birthed him was just another rotating caregiver.

Today was Saturday. I'd woken at six, showered, dressed in jeans and a soft sweater—nothing fancy, Silver Peak had taught me that I didn't need to dress up to be William's mother—and made the drive on autopilot, my hands knowing the route even when my mind wandered.

The gates opened automatically when I pulled up.

Alfred was waiting at the entrance, as always. "Ms. Parker. William is awake and waiting for you."

"Thank you, Alfred." I'd stopped trying to make small talk months ago. These people were kind but professional, and I was just another appointment in their carefully managed schedules.

William was in his crib, propped up on his stomach, pushing himself up on his arms in that way babies did when they were learning their own strength. Five months old now. Growing so fast. When he saw me, his face lit up—that pure, uncomplicated joy that made everything else worth it—and he made his happy sound, that gurgling coo that meant mama.

"Hi, baby." I scooped him up, buried my face in his neck, breathed in his scent—milk and baby soap and something uniquely him. "Mama missed you so much."

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked, babbling nonsense syllables. I laughed despite the sting, settled into the rocking chair, and started to nurse him. He latched immediately, small hand resting on my chest, eyes drifting half-closed in contentment.

This. This was what I lived for. These nine hours, three times a week, when I got to be just his mother. No custody agreements, no lawyers, no careful negotiations about who got which holidays. Just me and William and the quiet intimacy of feeding my child.

The door opened. Ryan, of course. He always appeared at some point, usually with some excuse about needing to tell me something about William's schedule or his pediatrician appointment. Really, I think he just wanted to see me. To reassure himself that I was real, that this arrangement was working, that we hadn't completely destroyed each other.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, though he didn't look sorry. He looked tired. He always looked tired these days. "I wanted to let you know—William's checkup is next Tuesday. The pediatrician wants to discuss his vaccination schedule."

"Okay." I kept my eyes on William, watched his small fist flex and relax against my skin. "Send me the details and I'll make sure I'm available."

"You can come to the appointment if you want. It's at ten, but if that doesn't work with your schedule—"

"I'll make it work." I finally looked up at him. "He's my son, Ryan. I want to be there for his medical appointments."

Something flickered across his face—relief, maybe, or guilt. "Of course. I'll have Alfred add you to the calendar."

He lingered in the doorway, watching us. I wanted to tell him to leave, to give me these nine hours without his presence complicating everything. But I also understood the impulse. The need to see William, to be near him, even if it meant standing awkwardly in a doorway while your ex-wife nursed the child you shared.

"He's getting big," Ryan said softly. "Growing so fast."

"I know." My throat tightened. I saw William every other day, and even I could barely keep up with how quickly he was changing.

"Lily—"

"Please don't." I adjusted William in my arms as he finished nursing, started patting his back for burps. "We're doing well. Let's not make it harder."

Ryan nodded, stepped back. "I'll be in my study if you need anything."

Then he was gone, and I was alone with William again. I burped him, changed his diaper, spread a blanket on the floor and lay down beside him for tummy time. He was getting stronger every day, could hold his head up for minutes at a time now, would roll from back to stomach and then get frustrated when he couldn't figure out how to roll back.

"You're so smart," I murmured, stroking his back. "So strong. You're going to be crawling before I know it, aren't you? And then walking. And then running away from me because you'll be too busy exploring to sit still."

He made a happy sound, drooled on the blanket.

I watched him until six o'clock—the appointed end time, the moment when I was supposed to hand him back to the nurse and drive away.

Then I walked out of the nursery, down the hallway, out of the East Wing, into my car. I didn't let myself cry until I was past the gates, until Silver Peak had disappeared in my rearview mirror and there was no one to see me fall apart.

I was surviving, which wasn't the same thing as thriving.