Then the door burst open and Bianca stormed in without knocking, ponytail swinging, phone already raised like she intended to livestream her own defense.
“You are not pinning this on me,” she announced to the room.
The compliance director didn’t even glance up. She simply lifted one hand, and somehow that was enough to make Bianca stop talking.
Someone slid a folder across the table toward Ray. I watched him go still, reading whatever was inside it, and watched the confidence drain out of his shoulders in real time, like air leaving a tire.
Twenty minutes later, the door opened and Ray stepped into the hallway, visibly startled to find me standing there.
“Nadia.” His voice had gone soft, performative-soft, the tone he used to use when he wanted something. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“You made a scene at home in front of nobody, Ray. I’m not doing this here in front of everybody.”
Behind him, Bianca appeared in the doorway, already mid-sentence to someone. “This is insane, I work here—”
The compliance director stepped out behind her, calm in a way that was somehow more frightening than shouting. “Your contract with the wellness program is terminated, effective immediately. Legal will follow up regarding the reimbursements. Please don’t return to this building.”
“You cannot be serious,” Bianca said.
“I am,” the director said, and turned to Ray. “You’re on unpaid suspension pending a full review. Please hand over your badge.”
A security guard I hadn’t noticed stepped forward with a clipboard, and that, finally, was the thing that made Ray stop talking entirely.
I looked at him — this man I’d built a whole life and six whole people with — and felt something settle in me that was quieter than anger.
“I’m going home to our children,” I said. “You can send whatever you’re going to send through a lawyer. I’m done managing the fallout of your choices.”
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
I turned and walked back toward the elevators, and I did not look back to see whether he was watching me go.
That evening, all six of them found their way to me at some point — Marcus first, arms crossed, asking flat-out if Dad was coming back, and taking the honest “I don’t know yet, but I’m here” better than I expected. Then the twins, tag-teaming questions about dinner like nothing in the world was wrong, which was its own kind of mercy. Then Bea, quiet, watching me carefully in the way twelve-year-olds do when they suspect adults are lying to protect them. Then Wren, last, climbing into my lap at bath time.
“Is Daddy still mad?”
“Daddy’s not mad at you, baby. Not even a little.”
“Is he coming home?”
I brushed her damp hair back from her face and thought about the version of myself who used to apologize for taking up too much space in her own kitchen.
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“Not for a while,” I said. “Maybe not ever. But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
She nodded like that was, in fact, the only part of the answer that mattered, and reached for her rubber duck like the conversation was over.
