Chapter 10: Friday Morning
The EEG took forty minutes.
Willa did not enjoy it.
She made her feelings known at volume and with considerable commitment, and the technician, a calm woman named Adaeze who had clearly weathered worse, worked around the noise with practiced efficiency.
Sloan stood at the head of the table with one hand on Willa's chest the entire time, not restraining her, just present.
A constant point of contact.
I stood on the other side and held Willa's hand when she reached for something to grip.
She gripped my finger and did not let go for thirty-seven minutes.
The neurologist, Dr.
Okafor, came in while Willa was being cleaned up and unhooked.
She had a tablet and a manner that was direct without being cold.
"The EEG shows no structural abnormality," she said.
"No seizure activity.
The episodes Willa experienced in her first week are consistent with immature respiratory regulation — something we see in a small percentage of newborns, particularly those born under significant maternal stress." She looked at Sloan briefly, then back at both of us.
"The good news is that her brain activity today is completely normal for her age.
The better news is that she has had no episodes in three weeks, which is exactly the trajectory we want to see."
Sloan's hand pressed flat against Willa's chest.
She didn't speak.
"We'll do a follow-up at three months," Dr.
Okafor continued.
"But based on today, I have no reason to expect anything other than full resolution." She paused.
"She's a strong baby.
Her numbers are good."
Sloan said, "Thank you," and her voice only broke on the second word.
Dr.
Okafor gave her a moment and then quietly left.
I looked at Sloan.
She had her face turned down toward Willa, who was now calm and blinking slowly, apparently unbothered by the last forty minutes.
"Hey," I said.
Sloan looked up.
Her eyes were wet.
"She's okay," I said.
Sloan nodded.
Then she made a sound that was not quite a laugh and not quite a sob and pressed her forehead against mine for just a moment, Willa between us, the three of us close enough that I could feel Sloan's breath and Willa's warmth at the same time.
She pulled back after a few seconds.
Straightened.
Wiped her face with the back of her hand.
"Don't make a thing of it," she said.
"I won't," I said.
We took a car back to the penthouse.
Willa fell asleep before we reached the FDR Drive.
Sloan sat with her in the car seat, one hand resting lightly on Willa's stomach.
"Marcus texted while we were inside," I said.
"Dominic accepted a cooperation agreement this morning.
He'll plead to the document tampering charge and provide full testimony on the clause and the letter.
The bar will still proceed independently, but the DA is satisfied."
Sloan kept her eyes on Willa.
"What does that mean for him?"
"Disbarment is nearly certain.
Criminal sentencing depends on the judge, but Marcus thinks probation and restitution are likely given the cooperation." I paused.
"The firm is covering your medical bills as part of their liability settlement.
All forty-three thousand.
And the full settlement amount is being recalculated with section eleven removed."
She was quiet for a moment.
"That's more than I expected."
"It's what you were owed from the beginning."
She nodded slowly.
Outside, the city moved past the windows.
The river caught the morning light and held it for a moment before the car turned and it was gone.
"I've been thinking about what you said," Sloan said.
"About being wrong about being better alone."
"And?"
She looked at me.
"I think I let you be alone more than I should have.
I got tired of asking you to come home, so I stopped asking.
And then I told myself that meant I was fine on my own." She paused.
"I wasn't fine.
I was just quiet about it."
"We were both wrong about different things," I said.
"Yes." She looked back at Willa.
"I think that's actually the most honest thing either of us has said about the marriage."
The car stopped in front of the building.
The doorman came forward.
Sloan gathered Willa carefully, and I got the door, and we went inside together.
In the elevator, Sloan shifted Willa to her other shoulder.
Willa's face turned toward me, eyes still closed, entirely at peace.
"She knows your voice already," Sloan said.
"She started turning toward it two days ago."
I looked at my daughter's sleeping face.
The dark hair.
The mouth that was mine.
The small, certain weight of her against her mother's shoulder.
"I'm not going anywhere," I said.
Not to Sloan.
Not to the room.
Just out loud, because it needed to be said where someone could hear it.
Sloan didn't answer.
But when the elevator opened and she walked out ahead of me, she left the door to the penthouse open behind her.
I walked through it.
---
Some people come back into our lives not because the timing is finally right, but because something small and irreplaceable makes the distance impossible to justify anymore.
For Vincent and Sloan, that something was four weeks old and weighed less than eight pounds.
Have you ever had a moment — a phone call, a knock at the door, a name on a screen — that made you realize you had been wrong about something that truly mattered?
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