Inside was the smallest baby I had ever seen.

My son weighed barely four pounds.

A tiny blue cap covered his head, and an oxygen mask rested over his face.

His chest rose and fell in shallow, steady movements.

My knees almost gave out.

“He’s small,” Dr. Lawson said quietly, “but he’s doing well. His lungs are developing nicely. He mainly needs time and monitoring.”

I moved closer.

With trembling fingers, I reached through the opening in the incubator and touched his hand.

His fingers wrapped around my pinky.

That tiny grip shattered something inside me.

I started crying.

“What did she name him?”

“She hasn’t.”

I looked at the doctor.

“She said she was waiting.”

I stared at my son through blurred eyes.

“I’m here,” I whispered. “Dad’s here.”

After spending several minutes beside him, Dr. Lawson led me toward Clover’s room.

“She’s awake.”

I entered quietly.

Clover lay against the pillows, exhausted and pale, an IV attached to her hand.

Her dark hair spread across the pillow.

When she noticed me, her eyes widened.

“Bernard?”

Her voice was barely audible.

“What are you doing here?”

I approached the bed slowly.

“Dr. Lawson called me.”

Clover stared at me.

“She told me about our son.”

Confusion crossed her face.

“She called you?”

“You put my name down as his father.”

Clover looked toward the window.

“I listed you for the medical records. I didn’t think anyone would contact you.”

Then she added quietly:

“I thought you’d already made your decision.”

The words hit me like a punch.

“What decision?”

She closed her eyes.

“Bernard, don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Pretend.”

Her voice cracked.

“It hurts enough already.”

I leaned forward.

“Clover, I swear to you, I didn’t know you were pregnant.”

She stared at me.

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes!”

My voice broke.

“If I had known you were carrying my child, do you seriously think I would have let you go through this alone?”

She began crying.

“I called you.”

I froze.

“What?”

“I called you six times in April after the doctor confirmed everything.”

I said nothing.

“I left three voicemails. I asked you to meet me. I told you it was urgent. I said something had happened that would change both our lives.”

My stomach twisted.

“April?”

“You never answered.”

Her tears came faster.

“Then about a week later, I got an automated message from someone at your company saying that any further communication with you had to go through your corporate legal counsel.”

My entire body went cold.

“No.”

Clover shook her head.

“I assumed you knew. I thought your lawyers had told you I was pregnant and you’d decided you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

“No, Clover.”

I pulled my phone from my pocket.

“I never saw those calls.”

“I still have them in my call history.”

“And I never heard those messages.”

She stared at me, searching my face.

“Then where did they go?”

That was the question I intended to answer immediately.

Instead of contacting my attorneys, I called Marcus, the cybersecurity specialist responsible for my private servers and mobile accounts.

He answered quickly.

“Bernard? How did the meeting go?”

“Forget the meeting. I need you to audit my personal phone records from March through May.”

There was a pause.

“What exactly are you looking for?”

“Blocked calls. Deleted messages. Voicemails. Anything involving Clover Sterling.”

Marcus started working.

For several minutes, the only sound on the call was the rapid clicking of his keyboard.

Clover watched silently from the hospital bed.

Then Marcus suddenly stopped typing.

“Bernard…”

Something in his tone made my stomach drop.

“What?”

“You have an administrative filter on your mobile account.”

“What kind of filter?”

“It was installed in March. Every call, voicemail, and text coming from Clover’s number was automatically redirected to a secondary archive and marked for deletion.”

I felt my grip tighten around the phone.

“Who authorized it?”

Marcus hesitated.

“Bernard, the authorization came from the account belonging to your senior vice president of operations.”

I already knew who that was.

But I still asked.

“Who?”

“Your mother.”

Brenda Vance.