"This is insane," he said.

"I've been told my approach is unusual," she acknowledged.

"Unusual." He laughed, short and without warmth. He stood up and started pacing again. He couldn't sit still for this. "Serena. You were at a party. You knew what kind of party it was. You knew-"

"What kind of party it was," she said quietly. "Yes. I was there with my roommate. Her boyfriend was on the guest list. I drank two glasses of wine and talked to you for two hours and made a choice I can't unmake. I'm not here to relitigate that evening." A pause. "Are you?"

He stopped pacing.

She was right. He was doing what he always did when he felt cornered, which was attack the perimeter. Look for the weak point. It wasn't there. She hadn't done anything wrong. She'd been at a party, she'd been charming in that quiet, unperformed way that had caught his attention in the first place, they'd talked, he'd wanted her, and she'd made a choice that - he had to admit - he had also made. They'd both made it.

He just hadn't expected to see her again.

"I thought you'd be more upset," he said. It came out before he could stop it.

Serena looked at him. "I've had eight weeks."

He sat back down. He looked at the folder. He made himself pick it up.

The documents were real. He could see that even without his lawyers - they had the right structure, the right language. Someone who knew what they were doing had drafted these. He thought about what that meant. That she'd found a lawyer. That she'd consulted someone about this without knowing whether he'd agree. That she'd come in here with everything already architected.

He thought: She is twenty years old.

"Who drafted these?" he asked.

"A lawyer in Midtown. He's not connected to any firm you'd know. I paid him out of pocket."

"Out of pocket." He looked up. "With what?"

"I tutor," she said. "And I have a small scholarship stipend."

He set the folder down. He looked at her for a long moment - at the tote bag, the worn jeans, the steady hands. He thought about the party, about the way she'd been standing at the edge of the rooftop with a wine glass she'd barely touched, watching the city like it was something she'd been assigned to study rather than enjoy. He'd walked over because she'd looked so resolutely unimpressed. He'd been curious about her.

He'd been curious about her. That had been his mistake. He was usually better at managing his curiosity.

"What if I just say no?" he said.

"Then I have the baby without a marriage certificate, and I figure out how to explain that to my grandfather." She paused. A small thing moved across her face and then was gone. "That's the part I'd prefer to avoid. But if that's the outcome, I'll manage it."

"Your grandfather."

"Professor Edwin Ashford. He teaches English literature at the College of Charleston. He's seventy-two years old and he's the person in my family who-" she stopped. Started again. "He would be very hurt. Not angry. Hurt. That's harder to watch."

There it was. He'd felt her armor all the way through this conversation, efficient and well-fitted, and there was the first seam. The grandfather. She'd flinched, just barely, talking about him.

He thought: Use that. Then he thought: Don't. That's too ugly even for you.

He was surprised at himself for thinking the second thing.

"You said a modest child support," he said, moving on. "Four thousand a month."

"That's the figure I've been quoted for childcare costs in New York. It would adjust with inflation. If you preferred a lump sum, I'm open to discussing structure."

"You're open to discussing structure," he repeated.

"Yes."

"You sound like you're negotiating a lease."

"I'm trying to be efficient," she said. "I thought you'd prefer that."

He paused. He had preferred it, actually. He'd been half-expecting tears and recriminations and some version of the scene his college roommate had described once - a woman showing up at a hotel lobby, screaming. This was not that. This was not anything he had a template for, which was the problem.

"I need to think about this," he said.

"Of course." She recapped the pen she'd been holding - he hadn't noticed the pen until just now. "I'll leave the folder. I have a copy of everything." She stood, reached for her tote bag.

"Where are you going?"

"Home. I have a seminar tomorrow morning."

"You're just-" He stopped. "You drove here? Took a cab?"

"Subway."

He looked at her. She was standing, bag over her shoulder, waiting for him to either say something useful or move out of her way.

"You took the subway to tell me you're pregnant and then you're getting back on the subway."

"I have a MetroCard," she said, "so yes."

He didn't know if she was making a joke. He looked at her face. She wasn't smiling. He didn't think it was a joke. He didn't know what it was.

"I'll have my lawyers look at the documents," he said.

"That's fine." She reached into her folder and drew out a single card - plain white, her name and email. No phone number. "You can have them contact me through email. I'll respond within twenty-four hours."

She crossed the room toward the entry hall. He followed her, not knowing why.

At the door she stopped and turned. She was shorter than he remembered - he was six-two and she barely reached his shoulder. She looked up at him with those steady brown eyes.

"I know this isn't what you wanted," she said. "I'm sorry about the situation. I'm not sorry about the decision."