My Mother Made Me Raise My Sister's Child Chapter 2

The Davenport Holdings tower dominated the financial district, a sixty-eight-story monolith of steel and reflective glass.

I stood in the sweeping marble lobby, surrounded by sharp suits and clicking heels.

I was wearing a faded hoodie, my hair was unwashed, and my sneakers were scuffed with dirt. The baby was wrapped in a twenty-dollar blanket I had grabbed in a rush.

The two receptionists behind the polished desk looked at me like I was a delivery courier who had wandered onto the wrong floor.

"Good morning. How can I help you?"

"I'm here to see Alfredo Davenport."

The two women exchanged a brief, telling look.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Davenport doesn't accept unscheduled visitors. You can leave your—"

"Tell him someone is here to deliver his baby."

The receptionist's polite smile froze.

"Ma'am, we don't appreciate jokes—"

"Just pass the message along. Tell him his son has arrived."

Without waiting for their reaction, I walked over to the lobby's leather sofas and sat down. The baby began to fuss. I cradled him with one arm while reaching into my bag for the bottle.

The receptionists whispered urgently to each other before one of them picked up the phone.

Five minutes later, the elevator doors slid open. A woman in a sharp grey pantsuit stepped out. She was in her early thirties, wore gold-rimmed glasses, and walked with brisk authority.

"Hello, I'm Ms. Ward, Mr. Davenport's executive assistant. And you are?"

"Gemma."

"Gemma, regarding this... baby situation. Could you explain?"

"No. I will only explain to Alfredo."

Ms. Ward frowned. "Mr. Davenport is currently in a board meeting—"

"I can wait."

I leaned down to feed the baby. He drank too quickly, coughing slightly on the formula. I gently patted his back until his breathing evened out.

Ms. Ward stood there, watching us for a moment, before stepping aside to make another call.

When she walked back, her professional composure had returned, though her eyes were guarded.

"Follow me."

The private elevator took us directly to the sixty-second floor.

The doors opened to a carpeted hallway so quiet you could hear the faint hum of the climate control. Ms. Ward led me to a heavy double door at the end of the hall and motioned for me to enter.

The office was massive, flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city skyline.

Alfredo Davenport sat behind a sprawling mahogany desk.

He looked exactly like his photos, but the reality was colder, sharper. His dark eyes locked onto me, completely unreadable, as if he were reviewing a minor legal dispute.

He looked at me, then down at the bundle.

"Who are you?"

I walked straight to his desk and placed the baby gently on the dark wood, right over a stack of financial reports. The infant lay there, his tiny face wrinkled, a smear of white formula at the corner of his mouth.

"Special delivery. Sign here."

Alfredo didn't move.

He looked at the baby, then back up at me.

"Explain."

"Do you know Fiona?"

His brow twitched. It was barely perceptible, but I caught it.

"Who are you to her?"

"Her sister."

"Where is she?"

"London. She boarded a flight yesterday at midnight. Left right after giving birth, cut her phone, deleted her accounts, and vanished."

I tossed the manila folder onto his desk.

"The birth certificate is in there. Mother is Fiona. The father's name is blank, but she told me it's yours. If you don't believe me, we can run a paternity test."

Alfredo didn't touch the folder.

He leaned back in his leather chair, staring at the infant. The baby stirred, his tiny hand flitting outward until his fingers brushed Alfredo's silver pen.

"What is it you want, Gemma?"

"Nothing. The baby is yours, so he's your responsibility. I have no obligation to raise my sister's child."

"And if I say this child has nothing to do with me?"

"Then we do the DNA test. It takes three days. When the results are in, call me."

I pulled a slip of paper from my pocket with my phone number and apartment address, slapping it onto his desk.

"Three days."

I turned on my heel and walked toward the exit.

Just as my hand touched the brass handle, a sound echoed through the vast office.

The baby started to cry.

It was a thin, high-pitched wail that bounced off the glass walls.

My footsteps faltered for a fraction of a second.

But I didn't turn around.

I pushed the door open and let it click shut behind me.