Chapter 75: Father's Ultimatum
The silence in the penthouse had taken on a new quality since her parents left. It wasn’t peaceful; it was charged, like the air before a storm breaks. Stephanie moved through the rooms, her hand instinctively resting on the curve of her belly, a new habit that felt both foreign and essential. She could feel Veronica watching her, a constant, worried presence even from another room.
Two days had passed. Two days of strained phone calls with her mother and nothing from her father. The memory of his silence was a cold stone in her gut.
She found herself standing in the doorway of Veronica’s study. The room was a testament to her power—sleek, modern, with a brutalist desk and a breathtaking view of the city that seemed to bow at her feet. Veronica was behind that desk, her back to the door, staring out at the skyline. Her massive afro was a dark cloud against the bright glass, her shoulders set in a rigid line.
“He hasn’t called,” Stephanie said, her voice soft.
Veronica turned. The morning light carved the sharp planes of her face. Her green eyes, usually so full of fire, were shadowed with a concern she rarely showed. “He won’t. Men like your father don’t call. They act.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know yet.” Veronica came around the desk, her movements fluid and deliberate. She cupped Stephanie’s face, her thumb stroking her cheek. “But whatever it is, we face it. Together. Yes?”
Stephanie leaned into the touch, closing her eyes. “Yes.”
The moment was shattered by the soft chime of the penthouse elevator. They both froze. Veronica’s hand dropped from Stephanie’s face, her body tensing into a shield. “I didn’t buzz anyone up.”
The doors slid open. Charles Moreau de Fonteneau stood there, alone. He wore a perfectly tailored overcoat, his hands buried in the pockets. He looked as if he had simply stepped out for a breath of air and happened to arrive in their home.
“Papa?” Stephanie’s voice was a whisper.
He stepped into the foyer, his eyes scanning the space before landing on her. He ignored Veronica completely. “We need to talk. Alone.”
Veronica took a step forward. “Anything you have to say to her, you can say in front of me.”
Charles’s gaze flickered to her, a dismissive, cold glance. “This is family.” He turned back to Stephanie. “The study will do.”
He walked past them both, his expensive shoes silent on the polished concrete floor. He moved with an ownership that made Veronica’s jaw tighten. Stephanie gave her a small, pleading look—let me handle this—before following her father into the study and closing the door partway.
He stood by the windows, his back to her, a mirror of Veronica’s posture from minutes before. The city sprawled beneath him, a kingdom he had no claim to here.
“He did not say a word to me,” Stephanie whispered, the hurt from the other morning fresh and raw. “You were right.”
“I am always right about men like that,” Charles said, his voice low and devoid of its usual warmth. He turned. His eyes were not angry. They were something worse: deeply, profoundly disappointed. “You have made a mess, Stephanie.”
“It is not a mess. It is my life.”
“Is it?” He took a step toward her. “You run from your duties, from your name, from your family. You bury yourself in this… this American fantasy. You let that woman…” He gestured vaguely toward the door, his lip curling in distaste. “You let her put a child in you. Do you have any idea what you have done?”
Tears pricked Stephanie’s eyes, but she blinked them back, fury rising to burn away the hurt. “I have built a life I love! With a woman I love! Why is that so impossible for you to understand?”
“Because love is not a foundation! It is a decoration!” His voice rose, the first crack in his icy composure. He closed the distance between them, his tall frame looming over her. “It is fleeting. What remains? Name. Blood. Legacy. You are throwing yours away.”
“My legacy is right here,” she shot back, her hand splaying protectively over her stomach.
His eyes dropped to her belly. A complex, unreadable emotion flashed in their depths. He was silent for a long moment, the only sound their ragged breathing. Then, slowly, he lifted his hand.
Stephanie flinched.
He froze, his hand hovering in the air. The anger in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something that looked startlingly like pain. He looked at his own hand as if seeing it for the first time. Then, with a slowness that was almost reverence, he placed his palm flat against the swell of her stomach.
His hand was warm. Heavy. It was the first time he had touched her with anything resembling tenderness in years.
The door flew open with such force it slammed against the wall. Veronica stood there, her body coiled, a predator’s snarl on her lips. Her eyes were pure, undiluted fury. “Get your hands off her.”
Charles didn’t move. He didn’t even look at her. His gaze was locked on his daughter, his hand still pressed against the life growing inside her. He could feel the firm, round curve of it, the undeniable reality.
He looked up, his eyes meeting Stephanie’s, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet, stripped of all its previous venom. It was just a father’s voice, tired and old.
“You will marry her,” he said.
The air rushed from Stephanie’s lungs.
Veronica, who had been poised to cross the room and physically remove him, stopped dead. “What?”
Charles finally looked at Veronica, his expression unreadable. He removed his hand from Stephanie’s belly, the moment broken.
“You will marry her properly,” he said, his tone shifting back to its customary authority, but with a new, strange finality. “In France. At the château. With all the tradition our name requires.” He looked back at Stephanie, his eyes holding hers. “No grandchild of mine will be born a bastard.”
He walked past a stunned Veronica without another glance, heading for the elevator.
Stephanie stood rooted to the spot, her father’s words echoing in the silent, sunlit room. Marry her. In France. It wasn’t a question. It was a decree. An acceptance, wrapped in the harsh, unyielding terms of his world.
Veronica was at her side in an instant, her hands on Stephanie’s shoulders. “What the hell was that?”
Stephanie looked up at her, her light blue eyes wide with a tumult of shock, hope, and dread. “I think,” she said, her voice trembling, “that was my father giving us his blessing.”