Chapter 6 The Father's Threat

The weeks following our cemetery visit brought an unexpected peace to our strange arrangement. Alexander threw himself into preparing for the baby with the same methodical thoroughness he applied to billion-dollar acquisitions. Contractors came and went, transforming one of the Pacific Heights mansion's spacious bedrooms into a nursery while I directed the design—a celestial theme with stars and planets painted across midnight blue walls.

"What do you think?" I asked Alexander one evening, standing in the doorway of the half-completed nursery. The ceiling was being transformed into a perfect replica of the night sky, complete with constellations that would glow softly in the dark.

He studied it with the critical eye he usually reserved for financial projections. "The attention to astronomical accuracy is impressive."

I laughed. "That's such an Alexander response. What about emotionally? Does it feel right for our baby?"

Something softened in his expression. "Yes," he said simply. "It feels... hopeful."

That single word—hopeful—captured the tentative optimism growing between us. We weren't lovers again, not yet, but we were becoming something more complicated and perhaps more meaningful: partners preparing to be parents.

At twenty-four weeks pregnant, my body had transformed dramatically. My once-flat stomach now protruded proudly, making it impossible to hide my condition. Alexander, to my surprise, seemed fascinated by these changes. I'd catch him watching me when he thought I wasn't looking, his expression a mixture of wonder and something more possessive.

"The baby's kicking," I announced one morning over breakfast, placing a hand on my rounded belly. Without thinking, I reached for Alexander's hand and placed it where our child was performing acrobatics.

He went completely still, his eyes widening slightly as he felt the distinct movement beneath his palm. For a moment, his carefully maintained facade cracked, revealing raw emotion.

"That's... remarkable," he said softly.

"Remarkable enough to justify missing your conference call that started two minutes ago?" I teased, nodding toward the clock.

Alexander didn't move his hand. "They can wait."

Coming from a man who had once rescheduled our anniversary dinner because a Tokyo market had unexpectedly fluctuated, this was nothing short of revolutionary.

That afternoon, as I arranged flowers in the sunlit conservatory, Alexander's assistant appeared in the doorway.

"Ms. Montgomery, Mr. Sterling asked me to inform you that he'll be late this evening. He has an unexpected call with the New York office."

"Thank you, James," I replied, noting the young man's obvious discomfort. "Is everything alright?"

James hesitated. "It's not my place to say, but... Mr. Sterling senior requested the call."

My hands stilled on the flowers. Richard Sterling had been notably absent from our lives since Alexander's relocation to San Francisco. According to Alexander, his father had expressed nothing but contempt for our situation, calling it "history repeating itself in the most predictable fashion."

"I see," I said carefully. "Thank you for letting me know."

After James left, I tried to focus on my painting, but anxiety gnawed at me. Richard Sterling was a shadow over our fragile peace, a reminder of the toxic legacy Alexander was trying to escape.

When Alexander finally arrived home after nine, his expression was closed and remote—a return to the cold mask he'd worn less frequently in recent weeks.

"How was the call?" I asked, setting aside the book I'd been pretending to read.

"Predictable," he replied curtly, pouring himself a scotch—something he rarely did these days.

"Your father?"

Alexander's jaw tightened. "He's coming to San Francisco next week. Unavoidable board business."

My hand instinctively moved to my stomach in a protective gesture. "Does he expect to stay here?"

"Absolutely not." Alexander's response was immediate and vehement. "He'll stay at the Four Seasons. Our interaction will be limited to the necessary board meetings."

I nodded, relieved but still uneasy. "What does he want, Alexander? Really?"

He took a long sip of scotch before answering. "Control. It's all he's ever wanted." His eyes met mine. "He believes I'm repeating his mistakes."

"By being with me?"

"By allowing a pregnancy to dictate my actions." Alexander's voice was carefully neutral, but I could sense the tension beneath. "In his view, I've compromised myself just as he did thirty years ago."

"Is that how you see it?" I asked quietly. "A compromise?"

Alexander set down his glass and moved toward me, his expression softening. "No. That's his narrative, not mine."

"And what is your narrative?" I pressed.

He reached out, his hand hovering near my cheek before dropping back to his side—still uncertain about physical boundaries between us. "I'm still writing it," he admitted.

The next week passed with increasing tension as Richard Sterling's visit approached. Alexander spent long hours at his San Francisco office, preparing for the board meetings. I focused on completing the nursery, finding comfort in creating a sanctuary for our child.

The night before Richard's arrival, Alexander surprised me by returning home early, carrying several shopping bags.

"What's all this?" I asked as he set them down in the living room.

"Security upgrades," he replied, unpacking what looked like electronic devices. "Additional cameras, motion sensors."

"Alexander," I said carefully, "are you expecting trouble from your father?"

He paused, his expression guarded. "I prefer to be prepared for all contingencies."

"You're scaring me," I admitted. "Is Richard dangerous?"

"Not physically," Alexander said after a moment. "My father wages war through information and influence. But with you and the baby..." He didn't finish the sentence.

That night, I dreamed of faceless men in suits taking a baby from my arms while Alexander signed papers, not looking up. I woke gasping, my hands protectively cradling my stomach.

Richard Sterling arrived in San Francisco the next day. True to his word, Alexander limited contact to the board meetings, returning home each evening increasingly tense. On the third day, however, Alexander's assistant called to inform me that both Sterlings would be joining a critical investor dinner at Quince—one of the city's most exclusive restaurants.

"Mr. Sterling asked if you would join them," James said, his discomfort evident even over the phone. "He said your presence would be... strategic."

Strategic. Not desired or welcomed, but strategic. Still, I agreed. After weeks of peace, I needed to face the shadow looming over our future.

The restaurant was elegant and discreet, perfect for high-stakes business discussions. I arrived separately from Alexander at his request—a precaution that made me nervous. When I entered the private dining room, Alexander immediately rose to greet me, his hand settling possessively at the small of my back.

"You look beautiful," he murmured, guiding me to the table where several men in expensive suits sat.

At the head of the table sat Richard Sterling. The family resemblance was striking—the same imposing height, the same sharp features—but where Alexander's cold exterior occasionally cracked to reveal humanity, Richard's eyes held nothing but calculation.

"Ms. Montgomery," he said, not bothering to stand. "How interesting to finally meet you in person. I've known your family for decades, of course."

The deliberate reminder of his role in my family's destruction made my blood run cold, but I forced a polite smile. "Mr. Sterling. Thank you for including me this evening."

"Alexander insisted," Richard replied, his tone making it clear how little he valued my presence. "Family unity and all that."

The dinner progressed with superficial pleasantries overlaying venomous undertones. Richard dominated the conversation, repeatedly referencing Alexander's "temporary California distraction" and making pointed comments about "history repeating itself." Each barb was delivered with such polished charm that the investors seemed oblivious to the tension.

"Tell me, Ms. Montgomery," Richard said during dessert, "have you selected a name yet? Something traditional, I hope. Sterlings value tradition."

"We're still considering options," Alexander answered before I could respond.

"We?" Richard's eyebrow arched. "How charmingly involved. Your mother would be touched by such participation, Alexander. As I recall, you weren't quite so attentive during her final moments."

The table fell silent. Even the investors sensed the dangerous shift in atmosphere.

"Perhaps we should discuss the Asian market projections," one of them suggested awkwardly.

"In a moment," Richard said pleasantly, his eyes never leaving Alexander's face. "I'm simply expressing fatherly concern. After all, patterns tend to repeat across generations. Like mothers using children to trap ambitious men. Like sons watching history unfold without intervention."

Alexander's hand tightened on his water glass. I placed my hand on his arm, feeling the tension in his muscles.

"If you'll excuse me," I said, rising carefully. "I need some air."

Alexander immediately stood. "I'll accompany you."

"No need," Richard interjected. "I'm sure the investors would appreciate hearing your thoughts on the projections, son. I'll escort Ms. Montgomery."

Before Alexander could object, Richard had rounded the table and offered his arm with such public courtesy that refusing would have seemed petty. With a warning glance at Alexander, I accepted, allowing Richard to guide me to the restaurant's terrace.

The moment we were alone, his facade dropped.

"Let's not pretend," he said coldly. "You're repeating history in the most unimaginative way possible."

"I don't know what you mean," I replied, maintaining my composure.

"No? Your mother trapped Edward Montgomery with pregnancy. Now her daughter attempts the same with my son." His smile was vicious. "The symmetry would be amusing if it weren't so predictable."

"You know nothing about my mother or me," I said, anger replacing fear.

"I knew Charlotte better than anyone," Richard countered. "We were going to build an empire together before she chose your father's pretty words over real power. She regretted it, of course. They always do."

"My mother loved my father completely," I said firmly. "Whatever fantasy you've constructed about their relationship says more about you than her."

Richard's eyes narrowed. "Naive, just like Charlotte. Do you think Alexander loves you? That he'll be a devoted father? That child—" he gestured dismissively at my stomach "—will only repeat his own fate. The unwanted heir, tolerated for appearance's sake while his father builds a real legacy elsewhere."

"You don't know your son at all if you believe that," I replied, though doubt crept into my heart.

"I created Alexander," Richard said with chilling certainty. "Everything he is—the ambition, the strategic mind, the emotional detachment—all carefully cultivated. He'll never escape it, no matter how many nurseries he paints or prenatal vitamins he researches."

My surprise must have shown, because Richard laughed. "Yes, I know all about his little domestic performance. My son is thorough in his projects, even temporary ones."

The cruelty of his words made me physically ill. "I think this conversation is over."

"Indeed it is," Richard agreed smoothly. "But remember this, Ms. Montgomery—when that child cries at night and Alexander is absent, when you realize you've tied yourself to a man incapable of genuine emotional connection, remember that I warned you. Some men aren't meant for family. Alexander is my creation, and he will always choose Sterling Financial over sentiment."

Before I could respond, the terrace door opened and Alexander appeared, his expression thunderous.

"The investors are leaving," he said tightly. "Your presence is requested, Father."

Richard's public mask slipped back into place. "Of course. Ms. Montgomery and I were just getting acquainted. Family history, you understand."

As Richard walked past his son, he murmured something too low for me to hear. Alexander's face went completely blank—a dangerous sign I recognized from our worst arguments.

When we were alone on the terrace, Alexander approached me slowly, as if afraid I might flee. "What did he say to you?"

"Nothing I didn't already suspect," I replied, unable to keep the tremor from my voice. "That I'm repeating my mother's mistakes. That you'll resent this child the way your father resented you."

Alexander's eyes darkened. "And you believe him?"

"I don't know what to believe anymore," I admitted, tears threatening. "He said you were his creation—that everything about you was cultivated by him. That you'll always choose your company over... over us."

"He's manipulating you," Alexander said, his voice tight with anger. "It's what he does best."

"Is he wrong? You disappeared into board meetings all week. You brought me here tonight as a 'strategic' move. What am I supposed to think?"

"You're supposed to trust me," Alexander snapped. "After everything these past weeks—"

"Trust requires honesty," I interrupted. "Your father just implied that all of this—the house, the nursery, everything—is a 'performance.' A project."

Alexander stepped closer, his eyes intense. "And you believe that? After everything?"

"I don't know what to believe," I repeated, stepping back. "He said he created you. That you can never escape being his son."

Something vulnerable flashed across Alexander's face before hardening into resolve. He reached for me, grasping my wrist when I tried to pull away.

"Look at me," he demanded. "I was his pawn, just like you. For years, I signed what he put before me, followed the path he laid out. But not anymore. Not with you, not with our child."

The raw emotion in his voice made me pause. "Alexander—"

"He told me just now that he'll destroy you publicly if I don't end this 'distraction.' That he has information about your father's final days that would devastate whatever remains of the Montgomery reputation." Alexander's grip on my wrist gentled, becoming almost a caress. "I told him he would never see our child. That as of tonight, he no longer has a son."

"You can't mean that," I whispered, knowing what Sterling Financial meant to him.

"I've never meant anything more," Alexander replied, his voice steady despite the storm in his eyes. "I may be Richard Sterling's creation in many ways, but what I feel for you—what I want for our child—that belongs to me alone."

As we stood there on the terrace, San Francisco's lights twinkling around us, I realized we were at a crossroads. Richard Sterling's shadow still loomed large, but for the first time, I truly believed Alexander was fighting to step out of it—for himself, for me, and for our child.