Chapter 7 The Confrontation

The drive home from Quince was silent, tension filling the space between us. Alexander's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his profile rigid as he navigated the winding streets of San Francisco. I stared out the window, Richard Sterling's venomous words still echoing in my mind.

"He'll contact you," Alexander said suddenly, breaking the silence. "My father. He'll reach out directly when he realizes I'm serious about cutting ties."

"What will he say?" I asked, my hand instinctively moving to my stomach.

"He'll offer you money to leave me," Alexander replied with clinical detachment. "Substantial money. He'll frame it as concern for your welfare, protection from my inevitable abandonment."

The matter-of-fact way he described his father's manipulation was chilling. "You sound very certain."

"I know him better than anyone." Alexander's voice was flat. "It's what he did with my mother when she became... inconvenient."

We lapsed back into silence until we reached the Pacific Heights mansion. As Alexander pulled into the driveway, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen, his expression hardening before he declined the call.

"Him?" I asked.

Alexander nodded. "The opening salvo. There will be more."

Inside, the house felt different—less like a sanctuary and more like a fortress under siege. Alexander moved through the rooms checking security panels while I made tea, seeking comfort in the mundane ritual.

"We should discuss contingency plans," he said, joining me in the kitchen. "If things escalate with my father."

"Escalate how?" I wrapped my hands around the warm mug, trying to stop their trembling.

"Richard doesn't accept defeat," Alexander explained, pacing the kitchen. "He'll target Sterling Financial first—try to turn the board against me, question my judgment. When that fails, he'll become more personal."

"The information about my father that he mentioned?"

Alexander paused, his expression grave. "Among other things. My father collects secrets the way other men collect art. He's been doing it for decades."

"What could he possibly know about my father that I don't?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"I don't know," Alexander admitted. "But if he claims to have something, he does. Richard doesn't bluff."

The thought of more family secrets coming to light made me physically ill. Hadn't the Montgomerys suffered enough? Hadn't I?

Alexander must have read my expression because his own softened marginally. "Whatever it is, we'll face it together."

"Will we?" I challenged. "You've spent years compartmentalizing your life, Alexander. Business in one box, our relationship in another, carefully separated. What happens when those worlds collide completely?"

"They already have," he pointed out. "The moment you became pregnant."

The bluntness of his statement stung, though I knew he wasn't being deliberately cruel—just honest in his analytical way.

"And you resent that," I said quietly. "You resent this baby for forcing those worlds together."

Alexander went still. "Is that what you think?"

"It's what your father implied. That you're 'performing' the role of devoted father-to-be while inwardly resenting the disruption to your carefully controlled life."

"And you believe him over me?" The hurt in his voice was unexpected.

"I don't know what to believe," I admitted. "A few months ago, you told me to terminate this pregnancy. Now you're designing nurseries and threatening to disown your father over us. It's... whiplash."

Alexander approached slowly, stopping directly in front of me. "May I?" he asked, gesturing to my stomach.

I nodded, curious. He knelt before me—Alexander Sterling on his knees, something I'd never witnessed—and placed both hands on my rounded belly.

"I reacted badly when you told me about the pregnancy," he said, his voice low and intense. "I saw history repeating—my mother's manipulation, my father's resentment. I was afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Of becoming him." Alexander's admission was barely audible. "Of looking at my child one day and seeing only an obligation, a chain, the way he looked at me."

Our child chose that moment to kick vigorously, as if responding to his father's voice. Alexander's eyes widened slightly, his hands pressing more firmly against my stomach.

"But this..." he continued, something like wonder in his voice. "This is real. This child is real. And my feelings for it—for you—they're not performance, Sophia. They may be imperfect, evolving, but they're genuine."

The vulnerability in his expression was so rare, so precious, that I found myself reaching to touch his face. "I want to believe that."

"Then believe it." He turned his head slightly, his lips brushing my palm in a gesture more intimate than any kiss. "Whatever my father says, whatever he does, remember this moment. Remember that I chose you—both of you—over everything else."

The next morning, I woke to the sound of Alexander's voice, tense and controlled, coming from his study. I padded quietly down the hallway, pausing outside the partially open door.

"The board meeting is scheduled for nine," he was saying, his tone clipped. "I'll present the reorganization plan as discussed. If Richard attempts to intervene, remind him that his position is now advisory only."

A pause as the person on the other end responded.

"I'm aware of the potential consequences," Alexander continued. "Have legal prepare for all scenarios, including a hostile takeover attempt."

Another pause, longer this time.

"No. There will be no compromise on this point. My personal life is not up for board discussion or negotiation." His voice hardened. "If my father wants a war, I'm fully prepared to give him one."

I backed away quietly, not wanting to eavesdrop further. The gravity of what Alexander was risking—the company he'd helped build, his professional reputation, his relationship with his only parent—weighed heavily on me. All for a child not yet born and a woman he'd never publicly claimed until now.

When Alexander emerged from his study an hour later, impeccably dressed for battle in one of his power suits, I was waiting in the kitchen with coffee.

"I overheard part of your call," I admitted as I handed him a cup. "You're really doing this."

"Did you doubt it?" he asked, studying my face.

"I thought you might reconsider in the light of day," I said honestly. "Find some strategic compromise."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "There are some areas where compromise is impossible."

Alexander left for his board meeting looking every inch the financial warrior, but the quick, fierce kiss he pressed to my lips before departing felt like a promise—and a declaration.

Hours later, my phone rang with a number I didn't recognize.

"Ms. Montgomery," said a smooth, familiar voice when I answered. "I believe we have matters to discuss that my son would prefer we didn't."

Richard Sterling. I should have expected this.

"I have nothing to say to you," I replied, keeping my voice steady.

"Then perhaps you can listen," Richard said pleasantly. "I'm at Spruce restaurant. I've reserved a private dining room for lunch. I think you'll want to hear what I have to say about your father's final days."

My heart raced. "Is this blackmail, Mr. Sterling?"

"Merely an opportunity for clarity," he responded. "One o'clock. Come alone, of course."

He hung up before I could refuse. I stood frozen, phone in hand, weighing my options. Alexander had warned me this would happen, but he was in his board meeting, unreachable. Whatever information Richard claimed to have about my father, could I risk ignoring it?

After changing three times, I finally settled on a simple navy dress that accommodated my pregnancy while still projecting confidence. If I was walking into battle with Richard Sterling, I needed all the armor I could muster.

Spruce was elegant and discreet—perfect for Richard's purposes. The hostess led me to a private room where he waited, rising with false courtesy when I entered.

"Sophia," he said, using my first name as if we were old friends. "Thank you for coming. You look well."

"Let's skip the pleasantries," I said, remaining standing. "What do you want? What do you think you know about my father?"

Richard gestured to the chair across from him. "Please, sit. In your condition, standing seems unnecessary."

Reluctantly, I sat, placing my handbag beside me—inside was my phone, recording everything. If Richard was going to reveal something devastating, I wanted Alexander to hear it directly, not filtered through either of us.

"I'll be direct," Richard said after ordering for both of us—an arrogance I let pass unchallenged. "My son is making a catastrophic mistake, repeating patterns that destroyed his mother. I'm attempting to prevent history from claiming another victim."

"How altruistic," I said dryly. "And my father's role in this prevention?"

Richard's smile was cold. "Edward Montgomery's suicide was not solely due to financial ruin, as the newspapers reported. There were... other factors."

My mouth went dry. "What factors?"

"Your father contacted me the day before his death," Richard said, studying me for reaction. "He asked for mercy—not for himself, but for you and your mother. Offered me anything if I would restructure the debt."

"I don't believe you," I said automatically, though doubt crept in. "My father was too proud to beg."

"Pride falls before necessity," Richard countered smoothly. "He knew what was coming. He'd embezzled client funds in a desperate attempt to cover his margins. Criminal charges were imminent."

The accusation hit me like a physical blow. "That's a lie. My father was many things, but he was honest to a fault."

"The evidence suggests otherwise." Richard slid a folder across the table. "Banking records. Transfer authorizations. All signed by Edward Montgomery in the weeks before his death."

With trembling hands, I opened the folder. Inside were documents bearing what appeared to be my father's signature, authorizing transfers from client accounts to cover personal trading losses.

"These could be forged," I said, though the signatures looked authentic.

"They could be," Richard agreed mildly. "But they weren't. Your father was desperate, Sophia. Desperate men make desperate choices."

"Why show me this now?" I demanded, closing the folder. "What possible purpose does it serve except to cause pain?"

"Because you need to understand the pattern," Richard explained, as if to a slow child. "Your father's weakness destroyed your family. Alexander's mother's manipulation destroyed her. Now you stand at the nexus of both legacies, carrying a child that represents the worst of both bloodlines."

Rage boiled up within me. "You orchestrated my father's destruction. You called in his loans knowing he couldn't pay, over a decades-old grudge because my mother chose him instead of you."

"Business is business," Richard said dismissively. "Your father made poor decisions long before I called in those loans. He was weak—just as Alexander shows weakness now by choosing sentiment over strategy."

"Love isn't weakness," I countered. "Family isn't weakness."

Richard laughed, the sound devoid of warmth. "Spoken like Charlotte's daughter. She believed that too, right until the end when your father's 'love' left her penniless and socially outcast."

"My parents loved each other until death," I said firmly. "Something you'll never understand."

"And where did that love lead them?" Richard's voice hardened. "To ruin and suicide. Is that what you want for yourself? For that child?"

"What I want," I said, standing carefully, "is to never have this conversation again. Whatever my father did or didn't do, it doesn't change anything between Alexander and me."

"He'll leave you," Richard said with calm certainty. "Not today, perhaps not this year. But eventually. It's in his blood—in the DNA I cultivated. When the novelty fades, when your child becomes an obligation rather than a curiosity, he'll revert to type."

"You don't know your son at all," I replied, gathering my purse.

"I created him," Richard countered, echoing his words from the previous night. "Everything he is comes from me."

"Not everything," I said quietly. "You never taught him to love, yet somehow he's learning."

Richard's expression darkened. "A temporary aberration. When he loses control of Sterling Financial because of this infatuation, we'll see how long love sustains him."

I left without another word, my heart pounding. Outside, I took deep breaths of the cool San Francisco air, trying to calm myself for the baby's sake.

My phone rang almost immediately—Alexander.

"Where are you?" he demanded without preamble. "I came home and you were gone."

"I met with your father," I admitted. "He called about my father's suicide. I had to know what he knew."

Silence, then: "Where?"

"I'm outside Spruce now."

"Stay there. I'm coming to you."

Twenty minutes later, Alexander's car screeched to a halt in front of the restaurant. He emerged looking thunderous, his usual composure nowhere in evidence.

"Is he still inside?" he asked, scanning the restaurant entrance.

"I don't know. Alexander, he showed me documents suggesting my father embezzled from clients before his suicide." My voice broke. "Could they be real?"

Alexander's expression softened marginally. "Get in the car. We'll discuss this somewhere private."

Once inside, he didn't start driving immediately. Instead, he turned to me, his eyes intense. "Whatever my father showed you, remember that context is everything. Richard excels at presenting partial truths in the most damaging light possible."

"Were they forgeries?" I pressed. "The documents?"

"I don't know," Alexander admitted. "But I'll find out. I promise you that."

As rain began to fall, he started the car, driving aimlessly through San Francisco's misty streets. Neither of us spoke for several minutes, each lost in thought.

"The board meeting," I finally said. "What happened?"

"Richard moved to have me removed as CEO," Alexander replied, his voice detached. "He cited personal instability and compromised judgment."

My heart sank. "And?"

"And he failed. For now." Alexander's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "The vote was close—closer than I'd like. He has allies I didn't anticipate."

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "This is all because of me, because of our baby."

Alexander pulled the car over abruptly, turning to face me fully. "No. This is because my father cannot bear to lose control—of me, of Sterling Financial, of anything he considers his property. It was always going to happen the moment I stepped out from under his shadow."

Rain pounded on the roof of the car, creating a cocoon of sound around us. In the gray light, Alexander's face was all sharp planes and shadows, beautiful and severe.

"Before I met you," he said quietly, "I hated your name. Montgomery. The family that symbolized everything soft and weak in my father's worldview. The name he spat like a curse whenever he spoke of your mother's choice."

I stared at him, unsure where he was going with this.

"I sought you out at that charity auction because of your name—because acquiring a Montgomery, even briefly, felt like victory over a ghost." Alexander's honesty was brutal. "But then I knew you. Your strength. Your grace under pressure. Your refusal to be defined by what was done to your family."

He reached across the console, taking my hand. "I hated your name before I loved you. Now it's the only thing I pray for—that our child will have your strength, your resilience. Your capacity for love despite damage."

The raw emotion in his voice brought tears to my eyes. "Alexander..."

"Whatever my father showed you today, whatever he claimed about your father, remember this: Richard Sterling destroys what he cannot control. It's all he knows how to do."

As rain streamed down the windows, blurring the world outside, Alexander leaned across the space between us. His kiss was different from all that had come before—not demanding or possessive, but reverent, a pledge.

"We can leave," he said against my lips. "Walk away from Sterling Financial, from San Francisco, from all of it. Start fresh somewhere my father's influence doesn't reach."

The offer stunned me. "You'd give up your company? Everything you've built?"

"For you," he said simply. "For our child. Yes."

In that moment, drenched in rain and emotion, I finally understood the magnitude of what had changed in Alexander. Richard Sterling might have created the businessman, the strategist, the cold-eyed negotiator—but the man before me now, offering to sacrifice an empire for his family, was entirely his own creation.

"No," I said firmly. "We're not running. If your father wants a war, let's give him one—together."

Alexander's smile was slow and dangerous, a predator recognizing its mate. "Together," he agreed, the word a promise sealed with another kiss as the rain continued to fall around us.