You got in anyway.
When Gideon called again, you answered.
“Did you know?” you asked.
His voice sharpened.
“Know what?”
“I was fired.”
Silence.
Then, colder than you had ever heard him:
“Who fired you?”
“Marlene said budget cuts.”
“Where are you?”
“In your car.”
“Come to the building.”
“No.”
“Abini—”
“No,” you snapped. “I am not being dragged upstairs like some problem for you to solve.”
He went quiet.
You were breathing hard.
Your throat burned.
“I told you cleaners get mistreated every day,” you said. “You didn’t need to make me special to prove it.”
“I didn’t fire you.”
“I know.”
“But I own the company that allowed it.”
That stopped you.
Most men would have defended themselves.
Gideon indicted the system.
“I’ll handle it,” he said.
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t want my job back because I’m carrying your baby. I don’t want Marlene smiling through her teeth because the CEO told her to. I don’t want people whispering.”
“What do you want?”
You looked out at the rain sliding down the window.
The answer came from somewhere deeper than fear.
“I want dignity.”
Gideon exhaled.
“Then let me start by asking instead of ordering. Will you meet me tomorrow morning? Not at Silver Crest. My attorney’s office. You can bring anyone you trust.”
You almost said you trusted no one.
But one person came to mind.
Your neighbor, Mrs. Campbell, a retired school nurse who had checked on you after your mother died and left soup outside your door without asking questions.
The next morning, Mrs. Campbell sat beside you in a downtown law office wearing church pearls and the expression of a woman ready to slap a billionaire if needed.
Gideon arrived alone.
No entourage.
No sunglasses.
No expensive performance.
Just a dark suit, tired eyes, and a folder in his hand.
He greeted Mrs. Campbell respectfully, then sat across from you.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You folded your arms.
“For what?”
“For the first night. For insulting you. For offering money like it could cover grief. For being drunk enough to blur a line I should have kept clear.”
Your throat tightened.
He continued.
“And for building a company where someone like Marlene had enough unchecked power to punish an employee she thought nobody would defend.”
Mrs. Campbell hummed.
“Good start,” she said.
Gideon looked at her.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Despite yourself, you almost smiled.
His attorney entered and explained your options.
Not as a payoff.
Not as hush money.
As legal protection.
Employment retaliation claim.
Healthcare coverage.
Child support planning.
Paternity testing after birth or noninvasive prenatal testing if you chose.
Independent counsel paid for by Gideon but selected by you.
Housing support structured transparently.
A trust for the child once paternity was confirmed.
You listened, stunned.
No one pressured you.
No one asked you to sign anything that day.
At the end, Gideon slid a business card across the table.
“This attorney does not work for me,” he said. “Call her. If you choose, I will pay her retainer directly. She answers to you.”
You looked at the card.
Then at him.
“Why are you doing this?”
His face changed.
“Because my child deserves better than chaos. And because you do too.”
You wanted to reject that.
But the baby’s heartbeat echoed in your memory.
Fast.
Tiny.
Insistent.
You took the card.
The story should have become quieter after that.
It did not.
Two weeks later, the tabloids found out.
Not the real tabloids at first.
A local business gossip blog.
Billionaire CEO’s Secret Cleaner Baby Scandal?
Your hands went numb when Mrs. Campbell showed you the article.
There was your building.
Not your apartment number, thank God.
But close enough.
A blurry photo of you leaving the clinic.
A headline calling you “a former janitor.”
Former.
As if poverty were a stain and motherhood a trap.
By noon, bigger outlets picked it up.
By evening, Silver Crest’s board requested an emergency meeting.
Gideon called you once.
You answered because you were too tired to avoid him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You keep saying that.”
“I keep meaning it.”
You sat on your bed with one hand over your stomach.
“Did you leak it?”
“No.”
“Did someone at your company?”
“I think so.”
“Marlene?”
“Possibly. Or someone above her.”
Your heart sank.
“Above her?”
Gideon’s voice hardened.
“My board has been trying to force me into a merger I oppose. A scandal helps them.”
You closed your eyes.
Of course.
To the world, you were a poor pregnant cleaner.
To rich people, you were leverage.
Gideon said, “I can issue a statement denying nothing and asking for privacy.”
“And then everyone knows it’s true.”
“They already suspect.”
You laughed bitterly.
“Wonderful.”
“Abini, listen to me. I will not call you unstable. I will not say you trapped me. I will not allow anyone in my company to smear you.”
“Can you stop them?”
A pause.
