Chapter 6 - The Weight of What He Doesn't Know
1530 Words
Calla
That night, Calla sat in bed with her journal open and her phone blinking with unread messages—one of them from Tessa, which read simply:
How are you? And don’t lie.
She didn't answer right away.
The glow of the bedside lamp cast soft golden light across the room, where Lucas was already asleep in his dino pajamas, one leg thrown over his pillow like he was dreaming of scaling prehistoric mountains.
Calla reached for her pen.
Journal Entry – 10:24 PM
I saw him again today.
Not in a boardroom. Not in a suit.
Just Eli. In sunlight. Laughing.
And talking to Lucas.
He doesn't know. He looked into his son's face and thought he was talking to a stranger's child. What kind of mother keeps something like this hidden?
No.
What kind of woman falls in love with someone she knows she has to lie to, just to protect what she loves most?
Lucas doesn't ask many questions. But I see it in his eyes now.
He's wondering.
And Eli?
He's not suspicious yet—but he’s watching. I felt it.
How much longer can I keep pretending this is about me?
Calla snapped the journal shut.
Her fingers trembled as she picked up her phone and finally tapped back.
Calla: Can you come over?
Later That Night
Tessa
Tessa showed up with a bottle of wine and a whole bag of advice she hadn’t yet decided how to deliver.
Lucas was asleep. Calla opened the door in sweats, hair tied up, eyes shadowed with something she couldn’t quite name.
They sat on the couch. No small talk. No delay.
“I saw him,” Calla said, voice flat.
Tessa already knew. “The market?”
Calla nodded. “Lucas spoke to him. Eli gave him a honey stick.”
Tessa raised a brow. “Please tell me you didn’t introduce him as the mailman.”
“He doesn’t know, Tess. But he talked to him. Like they’d known each other forever. It was… surreal.”
Tessa poured the wine and handed her a glass. “And how did Eli look?”
Calla gave a small laugh, bitter at the edges. “Like every dream, I gave up trying to forget.”
“I mean—did he seem like he suspected?”
“No. He was kind. Friendly. He even asked Lucas about dinosaurs. He didn’t flinch.”
Tessa leaned back, swirling her wine. “That won’t last.”
Calla’s stomach twisted.
“You think he’ll figure it out?”
“Calla, he’s not just some guy. He’s Eli Williams. You’ve seen the man’s eyes. He doesn’t miss details. Eventually, he’s going to look at Lucas and see himself.”
Calla didn’t speak for a long moment.
“I don’t know how to prepare for that moment,” she whispered.
Tessa touched her knee gently. “Then maybe… don’t. Maybe you stop preparing for the crash and start figuring out how to land.” Calla looked down at her glass.
“Is it too late to rewrite the ending?” she asked softly.
Tessa’s voice was quiet, but firm. “Only if you stay silent.”
Eli
Eli couldn’t sleep.
He had a hundred emails flagged, two investor calls in the morning, and a wedding planner he hadn’t returned messages to in over a week. But none of it mattered.
Not tonight.
Because when he closed his eyes, he saw her.
And next to her… him.
The little boy at the market. Lucas.
He stirred his whiskey with a finger he didn’t care to use the spoon for.
The way the kid had looked up at him—like he wasn’t afraid, like they already knew each other—struck a strange chord. But it wasn’t just that. It was something else. Something deeper.
Those eyes.
A pale green-gray ringed in gold. Eyes he’d seen before.
On Calla.
But also, strangely… on himself.
He ran a hand through his hair and paced the edge of his living room, replaying everything. Calla’s reaction to seeing him. Her silence. The way she said, “Lucas is my son,” with just enough finality to shut down questions—but not enough to erase the ones that followed him home.
Three years ago.
That night had been a blur of rain, dim lights, and skin-on-skin urgency. He remembered how shaken she’d looked, how she kissed him like she was trying to forget something and found something else instead. But she was gone before morning. No name. No number. Just gone.
Three years.
Lucas looked about that age.
He swore under his breath and sat down on the couch, rubbing his temples.
It’s not possible.
Is it?
He thought about the timing. The fact that they hadn’t used protection. The way she had avoided his eyes every time he got too close. The way she looked at her son was as if she were protecting something more than just a child.
The knot in his chest tightened.
“No,” he muttered aloud.
There was no way.
If Lucas were his son, she would’ve told him.
Wouldn’t she?
He hated how the idea made something twist in his gut—not panic, not anger, but a strange, hollow ache he hadn’t felt in years. An ache with a name he hadn’t dared speak aloud:
What if?
He downed the rest of his drink and set the glass down too hard.
This wasn’t like him—spiraling, wondering, hoping for something he didn’t even understand.
It was just a coincidence. Just a random moment with a stranger’s child.
That’s all it could be.
Right?
Calla
Calla stood at the head of the long glass conference table, swatches of fabric and marble samples fanned out like a well-staged defense. Her laptop blinked with the updated presentation. The proposed layout for Eli’s penthouse flashed across the screen, sleek and clean—minimalist luxury with warmth tucked in the corners.
Just like he’d asked.
Just like she had tried to deliver.
He sat across from her, silent, unreadable. He hadn’t touched the coffee his assistant brought in. Instead, he sat with one arm resting on the back of the chair, fingers tapping against the wood like a quiet metronome of his thoughts.
And it was driving her insane.
“This design opens up the living area and integrates natural light from the balcony,” she said, voice even. “We’ve layered the space with warm neutrals and added stone accents to reflect the skyline view.”
“Hmm,” Eli murmured, tilting his head.
That was all.
Not, I like it.
Not, It needs work.
Just that vague, polite dismissal he gave to interns who brought him weak coffee and broken ideas.
Calla’s fingers curled around the edge of her portfolio. “If you have a direction you’d prefer—”
“It’s not the design,” he interrupted, finally meeting her eyes.
She stilled.
“It’s you.”
Her breath caught. “Excuse me?”
“You’re avoiding me,” he said, voice quiet but sharp. “You’ve barely looked at me since the day at the market. You finish meetings before I can ask a question. And you send your assistant instead of walking through the site yourself now.”
Calla bristled. “I’m being professional.”
“You’re being cold,” he said. “And you weren’t before.”
She forced her voice to stay level. “I thought you hired Sinclair & Fox for design, not personal warmth.”
Eli stood, slowly, crossing around the table until he was beside her. He didn’t touch her—just leaned over the layout, looking but not seeing.
“I don’t like working with people who hide things,” he said evenly.'
She stiffened.
He was too close. Too perceptive. She could feel his gaze skimming her profile, even if he wasn’t facing her.
“I’m not hiding anything,” she said.
“Then why does your voice shake every time I mention your son?”
Calla’s pulse pounded in her ears.
“I’m allowed to be protective of my child,” she said softly, eyes locked on the samples. “You of all people should understand that.”
He exhaled through his nose, standing upright again. “That’s the thing, Calla. I don’t understand. Because I don’t know what I’m walking into with you anymore.”
She forced herself to meet his eyes. “Then maybe stop trying to read between lines that don’t exist.”
They stared at each other, the tension between them thick and heavy. He looked like he wanted to say something more, to demand answers—but something in her expression must have stopped him.
Because, instead, he stepped back.
“Send me the revisions,” he said flatly. “And next time, I want you at the walkthrough.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and left.
Calla stared at the door long after it closed.
And for the first time since the day they met again, she wasn’t sure she could keep this secret buried much longer.
- Writer
