Chapter 156 Up
The first time Evan said no, Clark laughed.
It was a reflex—automatic, dismissive, shaped by a lifetime of being obeyed. Evan had been sitting at the dining table, feet swinging slightly above the floor, a half-finished glass of milk untouched in front of him.
“Dad will pick you up tomorrow,” Clark had said, checking his watch. “We’ll go to the science center. Just you and me.”
Evan didn’t look up. His fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
“I don’t want to go,” he said quietly.
Clark smiled. “You’re just tired. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
Evan swallowed. “I don’t want to go if Nyla isn’t there.”
The room went still.
Clark straightened slowly, the smile fading from his face like a curtain being drawn back. “What did you say?”
Evan finally looked up. His eyes were wide, guarded—not defiant, but resolute in a way that unsettled Clark far more than rebellion ever could.
“I don’t want to see you without her,” Evan repeated. “I feel… scared.”
Clark felt something twist in his chest—sharp, unfamiliar.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said, too quickly. “I’m your father.”
Evan nodded. “I know.”
The simplicity of that answer unsettled him even more.
The second refusal came two days later.
This time, it was during a scheduled visit at Clark’s apartment, arranged carefully through lawyers and coordinators who still pretended the situation was temporary, manageable.
Nyla had walked Evan to the door. She crouched in front of him, adjusted his jacket, brushed his hair back gently.
“You can call me anytime,” she said softly. “I’ll be right here.”
Evan nodded, but his fingers clutched her sleeve.
Clark watched from across the room, irritation simmering beneath his calm exterior.
“He’ll be fine,” Clark said. “You don’t need to hover.”
Nyla looked at him evenly. “He’s allowed to feel safe.”
Evan turned toward Clark, his voice barely above a whisper. “Can she stay?”
Clark’s jaw tightened. “This is my time with you.”
Evan shook his head. “Then I don’t want it.”
The words landed like a blow.
Clark stared at his son, searching for hesitation, for fear, for some sign this was a childish impulse that could be overridden with patience or authority.
There was none.
Evan stepped back—toward Nyla.
“I’m sorry,” Evan said, tears forming. “I can’t.”
Clark felt heat rise in his throat.
“You’re being manipulated,” he snapped.
Evan flinched.
Nyla straightened instantly. “Stop.”
Clark turned on her. “You’ve poisoned him against me.”
Nyla’s voice was calm, but firm. “No. You’re finally hearing him.”
Evan buried his face against her side.
Clark said nothing more. He simply turned away.
That night, Clark poured himself a drink he didn’t want and sat alone in his dark living room.
The silence felt accusatory.
He replayed Evan’s words again and again.
I feel scared.
Scared of what? Of him?
The thought was intolerable.
Clark told himself it was temporary. A phase. A consequence of stress and legal chaos and Nyla’s constant presence.
Children were malleable. Bonds could be rebuilt.
He had resources. Time. Rights.
Still, a crack had formed.
The teachers noticed next.
Evan had always been quiet, but attentive. Now he was withdrawn. He avoided group activities when Clark was mentioned in class. During family-drawing exercises, he drew Nyla holding his hand—and left the space for “father” blank.
When gently asked about it, Evan shrugged.
“I don’t know how to draw him,” he said.
The words reached Clark through an email written in careful, professional language.
We’ve noticed some changes in Evan’s emotional responses…
Clark closed the message without replying.
The third refusal came unexpectedly.
Clark had arrived early at Nyla’s house, determined to take control of the narrative. He told himself he would be patient. Gentle. Understanding.
He rang the doorbell.
Nyla opened it, surprised but composed.
“We didn’t schedule—” she began.
“I’m here for my son,” Clark said.
Evan appeared behind her.
The moment he saw Clark, his shoulders tensed.
“Hey,” Clark said, forcing warmth into his voice. “I brought you something.”
He held out a small box—an expensive toy, chosen hastily by an assistant.
Evan didn’t move.
“You can take it,” Clark urged. “Come on.”
Evan looked at Nyla.
She didn’t speak. She simply nodded, letting Evan decide.
“I don’t want it,” Evan said softly.
Clark felt something inside him snap.
“What is wrong with you?” he demanded. “I’m trying.”
Evan’s eyes filled with tears. “You’re loud. You get angry.”
Clark froze.
“I don’t feel safe,” Evan whispered.
The words hit harder than any accusation Nyla had ever made.
Nyla stepped forward immediately. “That’s enough. You need to leave.”
Clark stared at his son—this small boy who shared his blood, his name, his legacy—and realized with a sickening clarity that none of that mattered here.
Love could not be enforced.
Fear could not be argued away.
“I’m his father,” Clark said hoarsely.
Nyla met his gaze. “And right now, that isn’t what he needs.”
Clark turned and walked out without another word.
Guilt came first.
It crept in during sleepless nights, in the moments when Clark remembered Evan as a baby—tiny fingers wrapped around his own, the faint warmth of trust.
Had he pushed too hard? Spoken too sharply? Let power replace presence?
But guilt was an unstable emotion.
It didn’t stay long.
It curdled.
The more Clark was excluded—from bedtime routines, from school updates, from Evan’s everyday life—the more resentment grew.
He told himself Nyla was orchestrating this. That she was positioning herself as indispensable.
That Evan’s fear was learned.
That love had been redirected, stolen.
And beneath all of it, a darker thought began to take shape:
What if I lose him completely?
Clark met with his legal team the following week.
They spoke in measured tones, careful language.
“Emotional alienation is difficult to prove,” one lawyer said. “But not impossible.”
Clark leaned back in his chair. “What are my options?”
“Supervised visitation,” another said. “Court-mandated therapy. Potential custody adjustments.”
“And if the child resists?” Clark asked.
The room was quiet for a moment.
“There are mechanisms,” the first lawyer said carefully. “Compliance orders. Psychological evaluations.”
Clark’s fingers tightened around the armrest.
“He’s a child,” he said. “He doesn’t get to decide.”
The words tasted bitter, but necessary.
Power, at least, still obeyed rules.
That evening, Clark stood alone in Evan’s unused bedroom at his apartment.
The bed was untouched. The toys arranged exactly as an assistant had placed them.
It felt like a showroom. A lie.
For the first time, Clark felt something dangerously close to panic.
If he waited—if he softened, if he hoped—he might lose everything.
If he acted, he might still salvage control.
Control had always been his language.
His inheritance.
His weapon.
Clark picked up his phone and stared at the screen.