Nine Minutes, Fifty-Eight Seconds

Claire had once been able to tell how Adrian's day had gone by the way he said her name.

This morning, she heard an instruction.

"We're about to start," she said.

He glanced toward the director. "Give us ten minutes."

The director agreed before Claire could object.

Around them, people discovered reasons to look busy. Melissa pulled Lily toward the makeup room. Ryan set his coffee down and picked it up again.

Noah stayed where he was.

"You didn't ask her," he told Adrian.

Adrian looked down.

"Noah," Claire said softly.

"He didn't."

"I heard you."

She could refuse. She could walk out of the studio with Noah and abandon the remaining appearance fee, the bonus for reaching the final, the first steady work she'd had in months.

Adrian knew it too.

"There are cameras everywhere," he said. "Would you rather have this conversation here?"

Claire knelt in front of her son.

"I'm going down the hall. You can wait in our room with Maya. I'll leave the door open until she gets there."

Maya, the young runner who had brought the schedule, stepped forward at once.

Noah looked between them. "How long?"

"Ten minutes."

He considered that, then nodded. "If it's longer, I'm coming."

"With Maya."

"With Maya," he agreed reluctantly.

Claire stood and faced Adrian. "You heard him. Ten minutes."

He led her to an unused production office. She chose the chair nearest the door and didn't sit.

Adrian closed the door behind them.

"He's mine."

The certainty in his voice did something familiar and unpleasant to her stomach.

"His name is Noah."

"I know his name."

"Then use it."

Adrian drew a slow breath. "Is Noah my son?"

Claire looked at the coat he probably hadn't needed to check the price of. She had once stood in a department store for twenty minutes choosing a scarf for him. He'd worn it that evening because she'd asked, then left it in the car.

She wondered why that memory had survived when so many useful things had not.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"You saw the video. You know why."

"Because he looks like you."

"Because he's five years old, and you left almost six years ago. Were you pregnant when you left?"

She said nothing.

His jaw tightened. "Claire."

"Yes."

For the first time since he entered the studio, he seemed to lose his place.

He looked toward the wall, then back at her.

"And you didn't tell me."

"No."

"How could you decide that for both of us?"

Claire's hand tightened around the strap of her bag.

"Do you want to talk about decisions you made for me?"

"That's not the same thing."

"It was the same rent. The same child I had to feed when your company called every producer willing to hire me."

"Three years ago, I acted on information—"

"You acted on a video. And when I tried to explain, your lawyers told me to stop making statements."

He looked irritated now, almost relieved to have reached familiar ground. "Vivian was injured. There were witnesses."

"Then why are we discussing this? You already decided what kind of person I am."

"We're discussing my child."

"We're discussing the little boy who was two when I got your letter. I was warming his dinner when the courier arrived. I read it standing next to a saucepan because I thought if I sat down, I might not get up."

Adrian went still.

Claire hated that she had told him. It gave him an image he hadn't earned.

"You could have called me," he said.

"I did call you. About the video. Your assistant told me all communication had to go through counsel."

"You could have said there was a child."

"And trusted you to do what?"

The question remained between them.

"I would have taken responsibility."

"You would have taken charge. Those aren't always the same thing."

Outside, a cart rattled over the threshold of the next room. Someone laughed, then lowered their voice.

Adrian pulled out his phone and put it away without checking it.

"I want a paternity test."

"I'm not agreeing to anything in a borrowed office before breakfast."

"Then speak to a lawyer. I'll have Ethan arrange—"

"Not your lawyer."

His eyes met hers.

"Fine. Yours. But I'm not walking away from this."

"I'm not asking you to walk away. I'm telling you that you don't get to arrive and rearrange his life because a video upset you."

Adrian's voice cooled. "This production is financed through my company. If you want to make every step difficult, consider where that leaves you."

For a moment, Claire heard nothing but the air-conditioning.

There it was. Not an apology. Not a question about how the boy slept, what he liked, whether he'd ever been sick.

Leverage.

She shifted her bag onto her shoulder.

"Thank you for reminding me."

"Claire—"

"You can make my life difficult. You've had practice. But don't use my son's place here to pressure me. If you do, I won't keep this conversation private."

She opened the door.

Noah stood beside Maya at the far end of the corridor. He checked the cheap digital watch clipped to his backpack.

"Nine minutes, fifty-eight seconds," he said when she reached him.

"I hurried."

He examined her face. Then he took her hand without asking anything.

At the market, he wanted to walk the full length of the stalls before buying a single ingredient.

The safety producer, Ben, checked his clipboard. "We have forty minutes."

"Then we shouldn't buy the first thing," Noah said.

Claire watched from the marked parent area with the others. Adrian remained beside a monitor near the production van. She could feel his presence without looking.

Lily bought strawberries first. Owen asked if frozen chicken nuggets counted as ingredients. Noah walked past the fruit, stopped at a vegetable stall, and asked the price of the zucchini.

He asked again two stalls later.

Then he came back.

"These are smaller," he told the first vendor, "but we don't need big ones."

The woman grinned. "How many people are you feeding?"

"Two. My mom eats more if she thinks I'm not watching."

Ben laughed behind the camera.

Claire put a hand over her eyes.

Noah bought zucchini, tomatoes, a small bag of rice, and eggs. On the way back, he stopped at a fish stall where the vendor was packing ice around the remaining stock.

"Are you closing?"

"In ten minutes."

He looked at the last wrapped portion on the display. "Would you sell that for four dollars?"

"It's seven."

"I have four left."

"That doesn't make it four-dollar fish."

Noah thought about that. "No. But if you take it home, you have to carry it."

The vendor stared at him, then burst out laughing.

"That's your argument?"

"And we would eat it today."

"Four-fifty."

Noah checked his envelope, frowning.

"Four dollars and twenty-three cents," he offered. "But then I don't have any money."

The man took four dollars.

When Noah returned, he placed the remaining coins in Claire's palm with solemn satisfaction.

"Emergency money."

"Twenty-three cents?"

"Small emergency."

She laughed, and his whole face changed. For a second he looked exactly his age.

Their basket won for balanced ingredients and money left over. Noah accepted the little ribbon, then asked whether they could keep the groceries.

"Yes," Ben told him.

"Good. We already know how to make lunch with them."

That evening, while Noah washed marker off his fingers, Claire watched the official clip on her phone. The production had posted the fish negotiation. Views were climbing faster than she could refresh them.

Tessa sent a message.

Tell him I charge ten percent to negotiate my rent.

Claire read it aloud.

"Ten percent of what?" Noah asked.

"That's a very good question."

Someone knocked.

Daniel Mercer, the executive producer, waited outside with a smile Claire had seen him use on sponsors.

"We'd like to build on today's momentum," he said. "A dedicated mentor segment. More time for Noah, more opportunities for you both."

Claire kept her hand on the door.

"What mentor?"

"Vivian Sinclair."

From the bathroom, Noah called, "Mom, this soap doesn't work on purple."

Claire looked at the producer.

"No."