“I don’t know.”

But I feared I did.

The next day, I visited Dr. Pierce.

He had retired to a quiet practice outside the city, the kind with soft lighting, framed degrees, and a receptionist who spoke in whispers.

When he saw me, he looked older than I remembered.

“Mr. Sterling,” he said. “It’s been years.”

“I need to discuss my diagnosis after the accident.”

His expression stiffened.

“Medical records can be requested formally.”

“I have two sons.”

The color drained from his face.

He sat slowly.

“I see.”

“Do you?”

He folded his hands. “Medicine is not absolute. I told you biological fatherhood was extremely unlikely, not impossible.”

I studied him.

“Did Victor Hale speak to you before you told me that?”

His eyes flicked away.

There it was.

Not proof.

But enough.

“What did he say?” I asked.

Dr. Pierce removed his glasses and rubbed his brow.

“I shouldn’t have taken the meeting.”

“But you did.”

“He was concerned about your mental state. He said a woman was trying to make claims. He implied there could be extortion, stress, legal complications during recovery.”

“Did he tell you she was pregnant?”

Dr. Pierce was silent.

My voice lowered. “Did he?”

“Yes.”

The word was barely audible.

I stood.

The room blurred at the edges.

Dr. Pierce continued quickly, “He asked whether the accident could make paternity impossible. I said no. Not impossible. He asked about probability. I gave a cautious answer. Later, when I spoke to you, I used the same language, but I didn’t know—”

“You knew enough.”

He closed his eyes.

“I was wrong.”

Wrong.

Such a small word.

It could fit inside a single breath.

It could also swallow seven years.

When I returned to the townhouse, Lucas and Noah were building a tower out of books in the living room. Claire stood when she saw my face.

“What happened?”

I looked at the boys.

“Later.”

But Lucas had already noticed.

“Did someone make you sad?”

I knelt beside him.

“Someone made a mistake a long time ago.”

“Can it be fixed?”

I touched his shoulder gently.

“Not all of it. But some things can.”

He nodded as if this made perfect sense and handed me a book.

“Then help us fix the tower. It keeps falling.”

So I did.

For the next hour, I stacked books with my sons.

And for the first time in years, I did something that earned no profit, impressed no board, and solved no crisis.

It mattered more than anything else.

That night, Claire found me in the kitchen, staring at a cup of untouched coffee.

“You saw the doctor,” she said.