Chapter 4 Learning to Care

The Fairmont Hotel penthouse suite was exactly what one would expect from Alexander Sterling's exacting standards—elegant, expansive, and exorbitantly expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased panoramic views of San Francisco Bay and the twinkling city lights below. It was beautiful, undeniably so, but it felt like a gilded cage.

I placed my overnight bag on a marble-topped console table and moved cautiously to the window, keeping as much distance between us as the spacious suite allowed. Alexander watched me with the focused intensity that had once made me feel like the most important person in his world. Now it just felt threatening.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, breaking the tense silence. "I can order room service."

The question was so mundane, so normal, that it caught me off guard. I realized I hadn't eaten since lunch, and my pregnancy appetite was becoming harder to ignore.

"Yes," I admitted reluctantly. "I should eat something."

Alexander nodded and picked up the hotel phone, ordering a selection of dishes without consulting me. He knew my preferences, of course—after three years, he knew everything from my favorite wines (which I couldn't drink now) to how I took my coffee (which I also couldn't have). The thought was both comforting and unsettling.

"We need to discuss practical matters," he said after hanging up. "I've arranged for movers to pack your apartment tomorrow. My jet is standing by to return us to New York."

"I'm not going back to New York," I said, turning from the window to face him. "My life is here now."

Alexander's expression didn't change, but I saw his fingers flex slightly—a tell I recognized from board meetings when someone was challenging him.

"Your 'life' here is a fiction," he said coolly. "Claire Reed doesn't exist. That apartment is rented under a false name. Your job is beneath your qualifications. There is nothing for you here."

"There's freedom," I countered. "Freedom from the Sterling legacy and all its dysfunction."

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. "That 'dysfunction,' as you call it, built an empire that will provide security for that child you're so concerned about."

"Financial security isn't everything."

"Says the woman who grew up with it until it was taken away." His words hit their mark with precision. "Have you forgotten what happened to your family? How quickly society abandoned you when the money disappeared?"

I flinched. "That's not fair."

"Life isn't fair, Sophia. I thought you understood that better than most." He loosened his tie, a rare gesture of fatigue. "The child you're carrying is a Sterling. That comes with responsibilities and privileges both."

"And if I don't want those for my baby?"

Alexander's laugh was short and humorless. "What exactly is your plan? Single motherhood in a city where you have no support system, working at a gallery that probably pays you less per month than your Manhattan apartment cost per week?"

Before I could respond, room service arrived. Alexander directed the staff efficiently, and soon the dining table was laden with dishes—far more than two people could possibly eat. I noticed with surprise that everything was pregnancy-safe: no raw fish in the sushi platter, no soft cheeses on the charcuterie board, herbal tea instead of coffee.

When we were alone again, I gestured to the spread. "You did your research."

"I always do my research," he replied, pulling out a chair for me. "Sit. Eat. The baby needs nutrition even if you're determined to fight me on everything else."

I sat, more because I was genuinely hungry than out of obedience. Alexander took the seat opposite, watching as I served myself a selection of foods.

"I'm not fighting you for the sake of fighting," I said after several silent minutes. "I'm trying to protect my child."

"Our child," he corrected. "And protection is precisely what I'm offering. Financial security, the best education, opportunities beyond what most people can imagine."

"And emotional security?" I challenged. "Will you offer that too? Or will this baby be just another business obligation to you, something to be 'tolerated' but not loved?"

Alexander's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond immediately. Instead, he rose and walked to his briefcase, removing a book that he placed on the table between us. I recognized it immediately: "What to Expect When You're Expecting."

"Page 137 discusses proper nutrition during the second trimester," he said matter-of-factly. "Page 203 explains the development of the fetal nervous system. Pages 274 through 286 detail the common discomforts of pregnancy and how a partner can help alleviate them."

I stared at him, speechless, then opened the book. Nearly every page contained small, precise notations in Alexander's distinctive handwriting. Questions, clarifications, cross-references to medical journals. The book wasn't just read; it was studied with the same methodical thoroughness he applied to billion-dollar acquisitions.

"When did you get this?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"The day you told me you were pregnant," he admitted. "Before London."

"But you said—you made it clear you wanted me to terminate."

Alexander's expression remained impassive, but something flickered in his eyes. "I reacted... poorly. It was unexpected news."

"So you bought a pregnancy book just to... what? Understand what you were asking me to give up?"

"I buy information when faced with uncertainty," he said simply. "It's how I operate."

I flipped through more pages, noting detailed annotations about everything from prenatal vitamins to birthing positions. It was such an Alexander response—faced with an emotional situation, he'd turned to research and data. Yet there was something touching about the thoroughness, the attention to detail.

"This doesn't change the fact that you don't want this baby," I said finally, closing the book.

"I never said I didn't want it." His voice was quiet. "I said I didn't need an heir."

"That's semantics."

"No, it's precision." Alexander leaned forward. "An heir is a business asset, a continuation of a legacy. A child is... something else entirely."

I studied his face, trying to read beneath the careful mask he always wore. "And which are you interested in?"

Before he could answer, a wave of nausea hit me—the evening sickness that had replaced morning sickness in my second trimester. I barely made it to the bathroom in time, collapsing in front of the toilet as my dinner made an unwelcome reappearance.

I was vaguely aware of Alexander following me, but too miserable to care about my dignity. When the worst passed, I felt a cool washcloth pressed against the back of my neck, and Alexander's hand steadying my shoulder.

"I've read this is common," he said, his voice strangely gentle. "Particularly in the evenings for some women."

I nodded weakly, accepting the glass of water he offered. "It's usually not this bad anymore. I think the stress..."

"Of my arrival," he finished. "I understand."

He helped me to my feet with surprising gentleness, supporting my weight as we moved back to the main room. Instead of returning to the dining table, he guided me to the sofa, arranging pillows behind my back.

"Rest," he instructed. "I'll clean up dinner."

Too exhausted to argue, I watched through half-closed eyes as Alexander Sterling, CEO of a financial empire, methodically cleared dishes and stored leftovers in the suite's refrigerator. It was so incongruous that I might have laughed if I hadn't been so tired.

When he returned, he sat beside me, maintaining a careful distance. "Would you like to lie down properly? The bedroom is prepared."

"Not yet," I murmured. "The nausea gets worse when I'm horizontal."

Alexander nodded as if filing away this information. "What helps?"

"Time," I sighed. "And sometimes pressure here." I indicated the spot between my wrist and forearm that the acupressurist Dr. Ramirez had recommended had shown me.

Without asking permission, Alexander took my wrist, his fingers finding the pressure point with surprising accuracy. He applied gentle but firm pressure, his touch clinical rather than intimate.

"Like this?"

I nodded, surprised at the immediate relief. "How did you know?"

"Page 158," he said simply. "Acupressure points for pregnancy discomfort."

Of course he'd memorized it. I closed my eyes, allowing myself this moment of comfort despite my wariness. We sat in silence for several minutes, his fingers maintaining steady pressure on my wrist.

"I'm not staying at the Fairmont," I said finally, opening my eyes. "And I'm not returning to New York."

Alexander's expression hardened momentarily, then relaxed into something more calculating. "A compromise, then. I'll stay in San Francisco. We'll find suitable accommodation—a house in Pacific Heights, perhaps."

"We?" I repeated.

"Yes, we." His tone made it clear this point wasn't negotiable. "I won't live on the opposite coast from my child."

"You can't just relocate your entire life. Your company—"

"Is well-established enough to run from anywhere," he finished. "Technology exists for a reason, Sophia. Besides, Sterling Financial has been considering a stronger West Coast presence for some time."

I stared at him, trying to process this unexpected development. "You'd move your company headquarters for... this?"

"Not the headquarters. A division. And yes." His eyes held mine. "Does that surprise you?"

"Everything about you surprises me lately," I admitted.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Then we're even."

As the evening wore on, my nausea gradually subsided. Alexander maintained his distance after the acupressure, moving to an armchair with his laptop, working silently while I rested on the sofa. It was strangely domestic, reminiscent of evenings in New York when we'd each work on our own projects, comfortable in shared silence.

Around midnight, exhaustion overtook me completely. I must have fallen asleep on the sofa because I woke briefly as Alexander lifted me, carrying me to the bedroom with surprising gentleness. Half-asleep, I felt him remove my shoes and pull a blanket over me.

"Alexander?" I murmured, barely conscious.

"Sleep," he said quietly, his hand brushing hair from my face. Then, so softly I thought I might have dreamed it, he began to hum—a melancholy Russian lullaby, the melody hauntingly beautiful in the darkened room.

I drifted back to sleep with the strange realization that for all his cold exterior and calculating mind, Alexander Sterling might contain depths I had never imagined—depths that even he might not fully recognize.

When morning came, I woke alone in the luxurious king bed, momentarily disoriented. The smell of food drew me to the suite's living area, where I found Alexander setting out breakfast—simple toast, fruit, and decaffeinated tea.

"You cooked?" I asked incredulously.

He looked up, a wry expression crossing his face. "Attempted would be more accurate. The toast is somewhat... overdone."

I approached the table cautiously. The toast was indeed charred around the edges, a stark contrast to the perfectly arranged fruit plate beside it—clearly from room service. A small jar of expensive caviar sat incongruously next to the burnt toast, making me smile despite myself.

"Your solution to burnt toast is caviar?" I asked.

"Omega-3 fatty acids are beneficial during pregnancy," he replied seriously. "Page 142."

I couldn't help the laugh that escaped me—the first genuine laugh since he'd appeared in my apartment. Alexander looked momentarily startled, then his expression softened infinitesimally.

"We have much to discuss," he said, pulling out a chair for me. "But first, eat. Even if the toast is substandard."

As I sat down to this strange breakfast—burnt toast with caviar prepared by a billionaire—I realized we were entering uncharted territory. This wasn't the cold, transactional Alexander who had demanded I terminate my pregnancy, nor was it the warm, loving father I'd dreamed of for my child.

This was something in between—a man learning, perhaps for the first time, how to care about something beyond his empire. Whether that would be enough remained to be seen.