Chapter 3 The Runaway

San Francisco welcomed me with a blanket of fog and the distant sound of sea lions barking at Fisherman's Wharf. It was as far from the concrete canyons of Manhattan as I could imagine, both geographically and spiritually. The city's colorful Victorian houses and laid-back atmosphere felt like a different world—exactly what I needed.

I checked into a modest hotel using cash and spent my first day wandering the waterfront, breathing in the salty air and feeling, for the first time in years, completely anonymous. No one here knew Sophia Montgomery, the fallen socialite daughter of a disgraced banker. No one cared who I was or who I was sleeping with.

By my third day, I'd found a small one-bedroom apartment near Fisherman's Wharf. It wasn't luxurious—nothing like my Manhattan place—but it had character with its bay windows and glimpses of Alcatraz in the distance. The landlord, an elderly Chinese woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Chen, didn't ask too many questions when I offered three months' rent in advance.

"Good light for baby," she said approvingly, gesturing to the sunlight streaming through the windows. When I looked startled, she laughed and pointed to my hand, which I realized was resting protectively on my stomach—a habit I'd developed without noticing.

"First baby special," Mrs. Chen continued, patting my arm. "Need anything, I'm downstairs."

I signed the lease as Claire Reed, a name borrowed from my maternal grandmother. It felt strange, this new identity, but also liberating. Claire had no history, no baggage, no complicated relationship with one of New York's most powerful men. Claire could be anyone she wanted.

I found work at a small art gallery in North Beach, nothing as prestigious as my New York position, but enough to supplement my savings. I told them I was taking a sabbatical from the East Coast art scene—not entirely a lie. The owner, a bohemian woman in her sixties named Vivian, seemed more interested in my knowledge of emerging artists than in my personal history.

"Pregnant women have special intuition about art," she declared when I confessed my condition, concerned it might affect my hiring prospects. "All that creative energy flowing through you. When are you due?"

"Late November," I replied, still getting used to thinking that far ahead.

"Perfect timing for the holiday season," Vivian said pragmatically. "You can bring the baby to work. We'll set up a bassinet in the back office."

Her casual acceptance brought tears to my eyes. In New York, pregnancy was treated as a career liability in the art world. Here, it was simply another facet of life.

As weeks passed, I settled into my new routine. Mornings at the gallery, afternoons exploring my new city, evenings reading pregnancy books in my apartment. I found a new obstetrician, Dr. Ramirez, who was equally as kind as Dr. Carter had been in New York.

"Everything looks perfect," she assured me at my twelve-week appointment. "Would you like to know the sex?"

"It's too early, isn't it?" I asked, surprised.

"We can do a blood test that's quite accurate," she explained. "Some mothers like to know early for planning."

I hesitated, then shook my head. "Not yet. I'm still getting used to the idea of being a mother at all."

Dr. Ramirez smiled understandingly. "Whenever you're ready. Or not at all—surprises are nice too."

As my first trimester ended, morning sickness faded, replaced by a new energy that propelled me through my days. My body changed subtly—a slight rounding of my previously flat stomach, a fullness to my breasts. I began to feel real connection to the life growing inside me, talking to my baby when I was alone, playing classical music as we fell asleep.

I was careful with my digital footprint, using only cash where possible and a prepaid phone. I'd left my personal cell phone in New York, knowing Alexander could track it. Still, I couldn't help checking news sites occasionally for mentions of Sterling Financial Group, searching for some hint of how he'd reacted to my disappearance.

There was nothing. No public announcements, no reports of a missing woman in Manhattan. It was as if Sophia Montgomery had simply ceased to exist—which, in a way, she had.

One Saturday afternoon, nearly two months after my arrival in San Francisco, I found myself drawn to a small baby boutique near Union Square. The window display featured handcrafted wooden toys and organic cotton onesies—a far cry from the designer baby accessories that filled similar shops on Madison Avenue.

I wandered inside, touching soft blankets and tiny sweaters. A display of children's books caught my eye—classics I remembered from my own childhood, before money and status became the defining features of my life.

"First baby?" asked the saleswoman, echoing the same question I'd heard in New York.

"Yes," I admitted, now comfortable with the answer.

"Do you know what you're having yet?"

"Not yet," I said, smiling as I picked up a small stuffed elephant. "I'm waiting to be surprised."

I purchased the elephant and a gender-neutral yellow sleeper, carrying them home in a paper bag emblazoned with the store's name: "Little Treasures." For the first time since leaving New York, I felt genuine excitement about the future—not just fear or determination, but joy.

That evening, as I arranged my small purchases on the dresser that would eventually become a changing table, a wave of nausea hit me—different from morning sickness, more like a premonition. I barely made it to the bathroom before violently emptying my stomach.

Leaning against the cool porcelain of the sink afterward, I splashed water on my face and looked up into the mirror—directly into Alexander Sterling's cold, furious eyes reflected behind me.

I gasped, whirling around. He stood in my bathroom doorway, filling the small space with his imposing presence, dressed impeccably as always in a tailored suit that seemed wildly out of place in my modest apartment.

"Hello, Sophia," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "Or should I call you Claire?"

My heart pounded so hard I feared it might harm the baby. "How—how did you find me?"

One dark eyebrow arched. "Did you really think a different name and a new city would be enough? Your credit card trail led straight to SFO. After that, it was simply a matter of resources." He glanced dismissively around my small bathroom. "Though I admit, this... downgrade was unexpected."

I pushed past him into the main room, needing space to breathe, to think. "You had no right to track me down."

"No right?" His laugh was brittle. "You disappeared without a word. I returned from London to find you gone, no explanation except some cryptic note about being a pawn." His eyes hardened. "Was it all for dramatic effect? To make me chase after you?"

"I left because I had to," I said, backing away until my legs hit the edge of the sofa. "I heard about your mother."

Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, or pain quickly masked. "What about my mother?"

"That she trapped your father with pregnancy. That you watched her die." My voice trembled. "I couldn't let that happen to our child."

Alexander's face went completely blank, a sure sign he was controlling powerful emotion. His gaze dropped to my midsection, where the slight curve of my fourteen-week pregnancy was visible beneath my fitted shirt.

"Whose child is this?" he demanded, his voice like ice.

The question struck me like a physical blow. "What?"

"You heard me." He stepped closer. "Is it mine, or did you have other arrangements in New York I wasn't aware of?"

Fury replaced my fear. "How dare you. How dare you question that after three years."

"Three years during which you vanished without explanation, changed your identity, and fled across the country," he countered. "What conclusion would any rational person draw?"

"It's yours," I said, tears filling my eyes despite my determination not to cry. "I just couldn't risk you hating it. I couldn't bear watching you resent our child the way your father resented you."

The color drained from Alexander's face. For a moment, he looked truly shaken, his carefully constructed facade cracking to reveal something raw and wounded underneath. Then, like a steel door slamming shut, his expression hardened again.

"If it's yours..." he said slowly, measuring each word, "I'll tolerate it."

"Tolerate it?" I repeated incredulously. "This is a baby, not a business inconvenience."

"A baby that you deliberately kept from me," he pointed out, his control returning. "A baby you were prepared to raise without my knowledge or consent."

"Because I was afraid of exactly this reaction!" I cried. "Listen to yourself—'tolerate it.' As if our child is some necessary evil you'll endure."

Alexander moved to the window, looking out at the fog rolling in from the bay. His rigid posture betrayed the tension coursing through him. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.

"I'm not my father."

"Then prove it," I challenged. "Walk away. Let me raise this child somewhere it will be loved unconditionally, not 'tolerated.'"

He turned, and the look in his eyes made me shiver. "I'm not walking away, Sophia. You and that child carry the Sterling name whether you acknowledge it or not."

"We don't carry any name yet," I retorted.

"A technicality easily remedied." He pulled out his phone and began typing rapidly. "I've booked the penthouse suite at the Fairmont. Pack your things."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

Alexander paused, looking up from his phone with dangerous calm. "You have two choices. Come willingly to the hotel where we can discuss this situation like civilized adults, or I'll have my legal team file for emergency custody the moment this child is born, citing your mental instability and flight risk status."

"You wouldn't," I whispered, though I knew with sickening certainty that he would.

"I protect what's mine," he said simply. "Always."

In that moment, looking into his implacable eyes, I realized the full magnitude of my miscalculation. I had run to protect my child from Alexander Sterling, only to discover that running had awakened something primal in him—a determination to possess what he considered his property, whether he wanted it or not.

"One night," I conceded, my voice steady despite my inner turmoil. "We'll talk. That's all I'm promising."

His slight nod was both acknowledgment and warning. As I moved around the apartment gathering essentials for an overnight bag, Alexander's eyes tracked my every movement, like a predator ensuring its prey didn't escape again.

Whatever happened next, I knew with absolute certainty that my life as Claire Reed was over.