Page 22 of Say My Name

A flicker of doubt crosses his face.

“Good night, Elena.”

“Good night, Dominic.”

I go inside. His car remains at the curb until the elevator arrives, ...and his words stay with me as I go upstairs.

You don’t have to do everything alone.

I hang my coat in the closet. My condo looks exactly as it did when I left this morning. The kitchen counters are clear. The pillows on the couch sit at matching angles. My coffee cup is in the dishwasher with its handle lined up beside the others.

In my bedroom, I take off my earrings and place them together in the dish on my dresser. Then I pick up my phone.

I can’t find a copy of the wedding video. I watched it on a bridesmaid’s screen at Cliff’s reception, and I don’t even remember which woman had it. Any search would be ridiculous.

My thumb still hovers over the social media icon.

Dominic Rowe—Big D.

Maybe the old nickname exists in a college thread or a tagged photo. Maybe I could find enough to satisfy the curiosity that’s bothered me for years.

Or maybe I’d spend the next three hours digging through pictures of my boss because he touched my neck and remembered which sparkling water I like.

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

I lock my phone and set it face down on the dresser.

I look around the precise apartment I built entirely for myself.

My ordered apartment felt less lonely before dinner.

CHAPTER 4

Dominic

By the third morning after Elena’s birthday dinner, I have reviewed three acquisition summaries, approved a revised capital plan, and filled three pages of a legal pad assessing my qualifications to father her child.

I started the list during a conference call yesterday. It has grown between six meetings and two late nights, fed by the memory of Elena’s words from dinner. A stable home no one can take from her. A future that doesn’t depend on a man’s feelings. I hear her voice laying out the terms, and I understand why an anonymous donor feels safer after her ex weaponized both professional access and personal dependence.

I still hate the idea of her choosing one.

I mute the call and draw a line down the center of a legal pad. On the left, I write the criteria I remember from the binder and our conversation. On the right, I write what I can offer.

Health is easy enough to document. I have a physical every year and no known hereditary conditions, although known isn’t the same as tested. I add genetic screening and sexual-health testing to the list.

Intelligence is more subjective. Writing it feels arrogant, but false modesty won’t make the comparison more honest. I built this company from two rented offices into a multibillion-dollar corporation. Elena has called me unreasonable to my face during a deal negotiation and corrected my assumptions at the whiteboard. She has never once questioned my competence.

Stability and financial security are givens. The schedule is a problem I can solve. I pull up my calendar for the next six months, red-lining two international trips and reassigning three standing committees. My executive team won’t complain about the extra authority.

Then I reach willingness to parent.

An anonymous donor gives the clinic what it requires and disappears. I couldn’t do that. If I have a child, I want the appointments, the nights no one sleeps, the school pickups. I want the ordinary days, not just the milestones. I want to be the person my child expects will answer when they call.

That makes me a poor choice for a silent donor. It may make me a better co-parent than any man in Elena’s binder.

Evan knocks once and enters with his tablet. His eyes flick to my legal pad, and the corner of his mouth tightens for a fraction of a second. After nearly a decade as my assistant, the look is as good as a question he knows not to ask.

“I moved your Thursday lunch.”