The baby's cries still echoed in Sly's head days after he left the hospital.
She wasn't his.
No matter how many times he held her, no matter how tightly those tiny fingers wrapped around his, the truth followed him like a shadow. He had chosen to stay. Chosen to claim her. Chosen to be the man who didn't run.
But something ugly had begun to grow inside him.
Doubt.
He replayed the night in the club again and again. The way Ramona had rebelled. The way another man had taken what Sly thought was sacred. And slowly, cruelly, a thought took root.
Maybe I was never enough.
Maybe my patience… my gentleness… my caution… made her look elsewhere.
The idea poisoned him.
So one night, without calling, without warning, Sly went to the mansion.
Ramona opened the door, startled. "Sly—"
He didn't answer.
He stepped inside, shut the door behind him, and looked at her with an intensity that made her breath catch. There was no anger on his face. No softness either.
Only something raw.
"Sly?" she whispered.
He reached for her, pulling her close—not violently, but decisively. The silence between them was heavy, electric. Ramona didn't resist. She didn't speak.
Neither did he.
The night swallowed them.
Later, as they lay in the quiet aftermath, Sly finally broke his silence.
His voice was low. Controlled. Dangerous in its calm.
"Was I too careful with you?" he asked.
Ramona's heart skipped. "What?"
He turned slightly, eyes locked on hers. "That night. The club. Did you need more than what I gave you?"
Her chest tightened. "Sly, please—"
"Answer me," he said, not raising his voice. "Was I naive?"
Tears welled up instantly. "No. Never. This isn't about that."
But he wasn't listening anymore.
"This," he continued bitterly, "is what I warned myself about. That if I had married you too fast, this is the kind of fire we'd be trapped in. Doubt. Comparison. Regret."
She reached for him. "I never compared you. Not once."
He pulled away.
"I don't know how to unsee it," he admitted quietly. "I don't know how to unthink it."
The words broke her more than shouting ever could.
By morning, Sly was gone.
No note. No message.
Just silence.
Ramona sat on the edge of the bed, holding herself together as the weight of everything crashed down on her—love, guilt, regret, and the terrifying realization that Sly wasn't angry anymore.
He was unraveling.
And this time, she didn't know if love would be enough to stop him from walking away for good.
Ralph didn't come quietly.
He came with flowers, confidence, and the kind of smile that assumed it still had power. He stood in the doorway of Ramona's mansion like he belonged there—like one reckless night had earned him a future.
"I heard Sly left," he said, stepping inside before she invited him.
That was his first mistake.
Ramona closed the door slowly behind him. Her face was calm, but her eyes were cold—harder than he remembered.
"You shouldn't be here, Ralph."
He smiled anyway. "I think I should. We have history. And now… we have more than that."
She laughed once. Sharp. Humorless.
"You mean the baby?" she asked. "Let me make something very clear."
She stepped closer, not backing away—challenging him.
"This baby is mine."
Ralph's smile faltered. "She's mine too. Blood doesn't lie."
Ramona's voice dropped. "Blood doesn't raise a child. Blood doesn't stay. Blood doesn't take responsibility."
He tried to reach for her hand. She stepped back instantly.
"Don't," she warned.
"I love you," Ralph said quickly, as if the words could fix everything. "I always felt something that night. Maybe you did too."
That was his second mistake.
Ramona's expression hardened completely.
"That night," she said slowly, "wasn't love. It was rebellion. Pain. A mistake I paid for in ways you'll never understand."
She opened the door and pointed outside.
"You don't get to walk into my life now and claim meaning where there was none."
Ralph scoffed, stung. "So you'll choose a man who doesn't even trust you over the one who made you a mother?"
Her eyes burned. "I didn't choose you then. I'm not choosing you now."
He hesitated. "And the baby?"
"She will know safety," Ramona said firmly. "Stability. Love. And if that ever includes you, it will be on my terms—not because you showed up late with pretty words."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Ralph stepped back, anger flickering beneath his wounded pride. "This isn't over."
Ramona didn't blink. "For me, it is."
She shut the door.
Alone again, Ramona leaned against the wall, her heart racing—not from fear, but from clarity.
She had made her choice.
Now the only question left was whether Sly would believe her when it mattered most—or whether the damage had already gone too deep to undo.
Sly didn't hear about Ralph from Ramona.
He heard it from someone else.
A mutual friend mentioned it casually, not knowing it would land like a blade.
"By the way, that club guy—Ralph, right?—people are saying he's been around Ramona again."
Sly didn't respond. He just nodded, finished his drink, and left.
The night air felt heavy as he drove home. He had promised himself he wouldn't spiral again. No reckless driving. No losing control. He kept both hands tight on the wheel, jaw clenched, heart pounding.
So it's starting again, he thought.
The fire I warned myself about.
He didn't go to her immediately.
That was worse.
For days, he stayed away. No calls. No texts. Just distance so thick it felt deliberate. Ramona noticed, of course. She always did. But this time, she didn't chase him.
She waited.
When Sly finally showed up, it was late evening. The baby was asleep upstairs. The house was quiet—too quiet for the storm he carried in with him.
"So," he said flatly, standing in the living room. "Ralph."
Ramona froze for half a second, then turned fully to face him. "He came once."
"And?"
"I threw him out."
Sly laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You see why this never ends, right? One man walks out, another walks in."
Her eyes flashed. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" he shot back. "Because every time I try to steady myself, something pulls me right back into doubt."
She stepped closer. "I didn't invite him. I didn't entertain him. I shut him down."
"But you didn't tell me," Sly said quietly.
That landed.
Ramona swallowed. "Because I was tired of begging you to stay."
Silence filled the room.
"I chose you," she continued, voice shaking but firm. "Even when you pulled away. Even when you doubted me. Even when you questioned yourself in ways that hurt us both."
Sly looked away. "You don't understand what it's like to look at that child and see another man's shadow."
"I do," she said softly. "Because I look at her and see every mistake I ever made—and still choose to love her."
He turned back to her, pain written all over his face. "I'm breaking, Ramona."
Her breath hitched. "Then don't break alone."
For the first time in a long while, Sly didn't have an answer ready.
That night, after Sly left again—slower this time, quieter—Ramona stood in the nursery, watching her daughter sleep.
"I won't let this world tear you apart the way it tried to tear me," she whispered.
Down the road, Sly sat in his parked car, engine off, staring at nothing.
He had survived betrayal.
He had survived a crash.
He had survived choosing a child that wasn't his.
But this—this constant war between love and self-preservation—this was the fight he didn't know how to win.
And somewhere in the dark, Ralph was still watching, still waiting, still believing the fire hadn't burned out yet.