Christian

The first ray of dawn slips through the blinds, casting a warm glow on Lillian's bare skin as she eases out from under the sheet. Her silhouette is a familiar dance of curves and grace—a performance I never tire of watching. She doesn't look back as she pads softly toward the bathroom, confident and unhurried. The sound of the shower is a subtle reminder of our uncomplicated arrangement. Lillian Bryant, no strings attached. It's exactly what I need—no emotional entanglements to muddy my already chaotic life.

With the bed now empty beside me, I prop myself up against the headboard. I find my phone on the nightstand, its screen lighting up to reveal a barrage of emails. Each one demands attention, but it's the calendar reminders that weigh heaviest—a triple bypass at ten sharp, followed by implanting a heart monitor late afternoon. A marathon run in scrubs and sterile gloves. I can almost feel the dull ache that will settle into my feet by evening. Running a hand down my face, I suppress a groan. Surgery requires precision, control, qualities I've honed over countless hours in the OR. But today, anticipation gnaws at me.

But there's no time for distraction. I swipe through my inbox, mentally preparing for the long day ahead. I am Vancouver's most sought-after cardiac surgeon. And I'm not a narcissist. I just know I'm the best.

The doorbell chimes, and I click over to look at the security camera feed on my phone. A woman stands at my doorstep, a stranger. Probably lost. I ignore the persistent ringing. She'll figure out her mistake soon enough.

Shifting my attention back to my messages, a smirk forms as a spicy text from Cinnamon pops up—an image of her perfect breasts. They're a little more than a handful, round, with small, light pink nipples.

Cinnamon: Something to look forward to after your surgeries.

Me: See you tonight.

We're fire together, and she always knows exactly what I need—a distraction, a release.

Cinnamon: Expect me at eight.

That's followed by a string of emojis—handcuffs, blindfold, paddle, and a red kiss. Looks like tonight's menu will be particularly hot. Kinky even. Good. I need something to clear the cobwebs and keep the shadows at bay.

The doorbell intrudes once more. An irritated sigh escapes me as I tap the intercom button. "What do you want?"

"Delivery for Christian Bradford." The woman's voice is assertive and unwavering.

I frown. "I'm not expecting any deliveries," I respond.

"Sir, you need to accept this personally. I can't leave until you do." Her tone brooks no argument, but I'm not one to bend easily.

"Look, I'm busy," I insist. "You must be mistaken."

"Dr. Bradford, I am not leaving this doorstep until you come down," she fires back, an edge of determination in her voice that irks me.

"Fine," I snap. I toss the covers aside and swing my legs over the bed. But then I watch as Lillian emerges from the steam-filled bathroom, swirling the lingering mist. She's a vision of composed elegance in her business attire, a stark contrast to the disarray of bed linens we've left behind. Her dress—a tailored navy number—hugs her figure with an understated sophistication that suits her no-nonsense disposition.

Just as she's fastening the clasp on her pearl necklace, that incessant doorbell chimes again.

"Can you get that?" I ask, gesturing vaguely downstairs. "I should start getting ready." My tone is casual, but my mind has an undercurrent of urgency as I mentally run through the day's surgeries again.

"Sure," Lillian replies with an easy smile. "It's probably your summons to court. Maybe someone's suing the miracle-working heart surgeon." Her laughter tinkles in the air, a playful jab at my expense.

"Ha-ha," I respond dryly. "There's nothing going on that could lead to that." Although I have to admit, her jokes are part of what makes this arrangement so refreshing—no strings, just shared moments of levity and lust.

"See you next time, Christian." She leans in, pressing her lips to mine.

"Next time," I confirm, breaking away. She's already a distant second to the meticulous rhythm of surgery that awaits me.

With a final glance at her retreating figure, I step into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over me, washing away traces of perfume and passion. Steam rises around me, fogging up the glass, enclosing me in a world where there's only the steady beat of water against tile.

The shower door slides open abruptly, jolting me back.

"Christian, you need to hurry up," Lillian's voice cuts through the mist. "There's a package, and it's kind of insistent."

"Insistent?" I frown, raking a hand through my hair. "Just leave it on the bed, Lillian. I'll be out soon."

"No, really," she insists. "I've got to head out, and it seems…important."

"Fine, almost done," I call, though I take a moment longer than necessary. The steady pulse of water calms my pre-surgery nerves, and I'm not ready to face whatever awaits outside this sanctuary .

Finally, I shut off the faucet, the echo of droplets trailing off as I wrap a towel around my waist. A clean shave is next, the razor gliding in familiar strokes over my jawline, methodical and calming.

Eventually, I emerge from the bathroom, and my gaze lands on the bed—and freezes. There, nestled in a car seat atop my scattered bedding, is a baby. A soft pink bonnet crowns her tiny head, and a plush brown teddy bear stands guard at her side. She slumbers peacefully, oblivious to the turmoil her presence stirs within me.

"Eight months, maybe?" I murmur, trying to gauge her age as I inch closer. She's so small, so vulnerable. I stand there, uncertain, my mind grappling with questions I can't begin to answer. A bag sits beside the car seat, its contents undoubtedly tied to the child before me.

I stare down at her, feeling the weight of responsibility press upon me like never before. This wasn't part of today's plan—or any plan, for that matter. And yet here she is, breathing softly, a new life in my stark bachelor's world.

I pace back and forth, feeling the thud of my heart against my ribcage. "Lillian?" I call, voice laced with disbelief. The silence that greets me is as heavy as the air before a storm. I fumble for my phone, and in moments, her number is ringing through the speaker.

"Hey," Lillian answers, her tone breezy, nonchalant.

"Did you see this…this baby?" My words trip over each other, hoping this is some kind of elaborate prank.

"Congratulations. It's a girl." She chuckles, but there's no humor in her voice. "The woman who left her said there's a letter for you in the bag."

"Can you come back? Please, I need help with this."

"Sorry, Christian, but no way. I don't do kids. They're too much work." Her finality stings more than the dead connection that follows.

I hang up, my hands shaking as they reach for the mysterious bag. With a forced steadiness, I tear it open, and papers spill onto the bed. I snatch the first one I see—a birth certificate. Addison Hearst Bradford. My name is printed, bold and accusing, on the father's line. The mother is Taylor Tull Hearst.

Christian,

I understand that what I am about to share with you will come as a great shock, but I must ask you to read through this letter in its entirety.

My name is Erica, and Taylor Hearst is my sister. Taylor and I have always been close, and she spoke of you often. When she asked me to babysit Addison this last time, I didn't hesitate. I'd done it many times before. Taylor told me she would be back soon, but she never returned. Despite my efforts, I can't locate her.

You are Addison's father. Taylor always intended to tell you, but life and circumstances got in the way. Addison is a beautiful baby girl who deserves to know her father. Enclosed with this letter, you will find her birth certificate, a list of her doctors, and a picture of her with Taylor.

Caring for Addison has been an immense joy, but also an overwhelming responsibility. I have a job and a life that makes it difficult for me to provide the care and attention Addison needs and deserves. I cannot do this any longer.

I want you to know that Taylor loved Addison very much. She always intended for you to be a part of Addison's life. I know this is a lot to take in, but I believe Addison needs you. She needs her father.

Please, take care of her. She is an amazing little girl, full of life and potential. She deserves to grow up knowing that both of her parents love her deeply.

I understand that this is sudden and difficult, but I hope you can find it in your heart to step up and be the father Addison needs. If you have any questions or need to discuss this, please do not hesitate to contact me.

Sincerely,

Erica

The room is spinning .

"Taylor…" I whisper the name, trying to summon a face, any memory from the haze of my past relationships—no, that's too strong a word. Encounters . Nothing comes.

Addison stirs in her car seat, her fussing a sharp contrast to the numbness spreading through me. I'm anchored to the spot, clutching the letter and the birth certificate. This can't be real, yet here she is—my daughter.

That word is foreign on my tongue, and it tastes bitter.

My hand trembles as I dial my mother's number. The phone rings twice before she picks up, her voice as calm and collected as ever.

"Christian, darling, what a surprise. What can I do for you?" Her words are like silk, smooth and unruffled.

"Mom, I need you to come over. Now," I say, struggling to keep my voice steady.

There's a pause, and then a sigh. "It's Thursday. You know I have my spa day, sweetheart. Massage, facial, mani-pedi…then my hair appointment. It's my regular Thursday."

"Mom, please. This is important. I never ask for your help, you know that. But I need you here, quickly." My words rush out, pleading.

Another sigh, heavier this time, resonates through the phone. "All right, Christian. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thank you," I breathe out, relief momentarily easing the tightness in my chest.

As I end the call with my mother, my thoughts race to the hospital. Today is supposed to be a marathon of surgeries, responsibilities I cannot simply abandon. With shaky fingers, next I dial Joanne Kim, my office manager and scheduler.

"Joanne? It's me. Listen, I need you to get the on-call doctor to start the triple bypass at ten. I'll be there as fast as I can, but I don't know when that's going to be."

"Is everything okay?" Joanne asks.

"Something's come up. Just handle it, please," I say, trying to maintain composure.

"Understood. I'll take care of it," she responds efficiently.

"Thanks, Joanne." I hang up and glance back at Addison, sleeping innocently in her car seat. She's still there. At least she's asleep.

I need to figure this out. And fast.

I stand frozen, my gaze locked on the tiny figure. Addison's delicate features tell a story all their own, one I struggle to comprehend. Her eyes, although shut, slant gently upwards. As I study her, the single crease across her palm and the pronounced gap between her toes leave a silent, undeniable declaration—she has Down syndrome.

A surge of confusion washes over me. This can't be right. I can't be her father. I'm always meticulous, never without protection. The very notion that she could be mine sends my mind reeling, searching for any lapse in memory, any forgotten encounter that might explain this impossible scenario.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to calm down, to focus on what lies before me. My fingers, steady now, pick up the note again. A photo flutters out, landing softly on the bedspread. Taylor and Addison reads the elegant script on the back of the photo. The woman radiates a familiarity—the kind I'm drawn to—yet her face evokes no spark of recognition.

I scrutinize the details in the letter, a trail of Addison's short history. She was born at Mercy Hospital, my own workplace—a detail that adds a surreal edge to the unfolding drama. Michael Khalili was the OB, and his name implies a complicated birth. Cordelia Johns, her pediatrician, and Davis Martin, her pediatric cardiologist—all names synonymous with excellent care within the hospital's walls.

Relief flickers briefly, knowing Addison has been in capable hands, but it's quickly chased away by a stubborn certainty. She can't be my child. This must be a mistake, an error that brought her to my doorstep. I need to confirm this somehow.

Yet as I look down at the sleeping baby, her chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm, I can't help but feel a strange pull, a connection that defies logic and precaution. Who is this little girl, and how has she found her way into my life?

A whimper cuts through the silence, and I freeze. In an instant, Addison's cries escalate, ripping at my composure. She's loud, insistent, and I'm out of my depth. My hands shake as I reach for the car seat, rocking it in a desperate attempt to soothe her. It's futile. Her distress grows, and with it, my panic. I don't know what to do.

"Christian!"

I barely register the door swinging open or the click of high heels across the hardwood floor. My mother, Madeline, strides in, a vision of composed luxury. I can't make out her words over Addison's cries. With an exasperated sigh, she scoops Addison up, giving her a pinkie to suck on. I stand there, useless, as she expertly changes the baby on my bed. I can't bring myself to step any closer.

"Christian, you must have formula or breast milk somewhere," my mother says.

"Uh, right." I fumble with the bag, tipping its contents onto the bed. Two cans of formula and a bottle emerge among a jumble of baby items. She takes charge, instructing me on the mixture—two scoops, six ounces of water. "All I've got is tap," I mumble.

"Tap water will do just fine," she says, and I can hear her patience thinning. When I return with the bottle, I hand it to Mom. She takes it from me, but shoves Addison into my arms before handing it back. "You've got to learn."

Addison squirms against me, her small form a foreign weight in my arms. I tip the prepared bottle toward her, but it crashes to the floor.

"Christian!" There's more than a hint of reprimand in her voice now. She retrieves the bottle and thrusts it back into my hands. "Hold it properly."

I want to tell her I don't know how, that this isn't my life, but the words won't come. So I just nod, my throat tight, and tentatively hold the bottle to Addison's lips, praying she'll be quiet, praying I can somehow manage.

My hands shake as she latches on, drawing from it with a ferocity that belies her small size. She finishes with a final, greedy gulp, and a burp bubbles from her lips. My mother, with deft fingers, unfurls a clean diaper.

"Once she's done eating, you may need to change her again," she says, her voice a mix of command and compassion.

I can't even begin to process the thought of changing a diaper. "I—I don't even know how," I admit, feeling the weight of my helplessness.

"Life is full of surprises," she replies with a wry smile. "Now, tell me, where did this little one come from?"

I recount the morning—the persistent doorbell, Lillian's departure, the package left behind. With a sigh, I point to the letter resting on the nightstand, its words still echoing in my head.

Mom picks up the letter, scanning it with eyes that have seen much in their time. Her brow furrows slightly as she reads. After a moment, she looks up at me, her expression unreadable. "Christian, do you recognize the girl? Taylor Hearst?"

I hesitate, searching the archives of my memory, but still, no clear image forms. "I'm not sure," I confess, the uncertainty gnawing at me.

She offers me a knowing smile. "You should get a DNA test, just to be certain," she advises. "But honestly, look at her… I'm quite sure she's yours."

I stand there, the bottle still in my hand, looking down at Addison's peaceful face and wondering how my life has shifted so suddenly. There's a vulnerability in her slumbering form that tugs at something deep within me, something I hadn't known was there.

"Get a DNA test," my mother repeats gently.

"Mom, what am I supposed to do if she's mine?" My voice cracks as the weight of potential fatherhood bears down on me.

She looks at me, her gaze piercing. "Christian, you'll be her father, and you'll have to care for her." Her voice has an edge of iron, a reminder that some things in life can't be shrugged off or sent to voicemail.

I reach out, trying to pass Addison into her arms so I can escape to work, to normalcy. "Can't you just watch her for today? I've got surgeries—"

She steps back, hands raised in refusal, shaking her head. "No, Christian. This is your child. You need to be responsible for your actions. We had this conversation when you were fifteen."

Her words sting, but I know she's right. "Then what am I supposed to do?"

"Find a nanny, and quickly," she says, already moving toward the door, her presence receding like the tide pulling away from the shore. "You have room here for Addison and her nanny."

"Mom!" But she doesn't turn back. After a moment, I hear the front door open and close.

I'm alone now, save for the tiny human being whose steady breathing fills the suddenly cavernous room. With trembling hands, I lift Addison, still swaddled in her pink blanket, and settle her back into the car seat. She stirs slightly, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she nestles in.

"Okay, Addison," I whisper, more to myself than to her. "We're going to figure this out together."

The quiet is profound, broken only by the rhythmic sound of Addison's breaths. My heart clenches, a strange mix of fear and something else. But I can't place what it is.

I pull out my phone, the screen lighting up with unread emails and messages, all ignored for now. I do a search for local nanny services, my fingers clumsy and uncertain. There's a whole world I need to navigate now, and it's one I never prepared for. What am I going to do?