Trillion(49)

“Have you heard from Nolan?” I ask.

They had me sign the birth certificate yesterday, pressing my fingertips into black ink and placing them in the boxes next to my daughter’s inky footprints. The spot for Nolan’s signature was blank, which I thought was funny since I was under the impression he hadn’t left the baby’s side since she breathed her first breath.

“I tried to call him,” Mom says. “But he didn’t answer.”

She doesn’t disguise the disgust in her voice.

Up ahead, a row of glass windows paints a view of the nursery. Babies lined up. Some sleeping. Some squirming. Some crying. Some sucking rubber pacifiers and staring blankly above. All of them swaddled. Tiny. Innocent. A man and woman in regular clothes stand beside a bassinet in the corner, talking to a nurse in head-to-toe pink with a stethoscope around her neck.

The closer I get, the more I recognize the man … the broad shoulders, thick hair the color of coffee, the twinkle in his gaze when he grins. He places his arm around the lanky, raven-haired woman, whose face I can’t see. And she leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder. A second later, he presses a kiss against her forehead and pulls her tight into his arms.

This must be the adoptive mother …

… and clearly she’s more than a “friend.”

I suck in a breath and pray my mom doesn’t notice—but she does.

“Don’t make a scene, Mom. Please,” I say.

And she doesn’t. Hand steady on my lower back, she keeps her gaze trained forward. “Let’s head the other way. I heard the view is better than that end of the hall.”

My lips quaver with each step.

Two thick tears slide down my cheeks.

“I hate him, Mom,” I say. “I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.”

“I know.” Her voice is low, a cushion of sympathy. Her gaze is distant, as if she’s retrieving a painful memory from her own personal collection. And now I get it. I get why she felt the way she did about my father. He lied. He betrayed her in the worst way. “But you’re going to be okay, Sophie. You’re strong. Stronger than you give yourself credit for. A lot stronger than I was …”

I swallow the hard lump in my throat and continue on, each step bringing me closer to my full recovery. And with each burning, painful step, I make a promise to myself—that I’ll never fall for another man like Nolan Ames again.





Thirty-Eight





Trey



Present



“I left for two days.” I slam the phone down as Broderick takes the chair opposite my desk on Monday morning. “I want Pesek fired. And I want Monrovian to replace him. Immediately.”

Over the weekend, it came to light that one of our marketing interns has been harassed over the past three months by a certain married executive. He’s lured her with jobs that don’t exist as well as career-oriented threats he has no ability to carry out. I never cared for the blowhard when we hired him, but he had the reputation as one of the best marketing hires in the industry, so I took a chance.

But now the girl’s parents are threatening legal action—understandably so. The last thing I need when I’m trying to acquire a “family” business is a shit storm like this smearing the Westcott name. Not to mention we’re on the heels of going public with our engagement in the coming weeks.

This could overshadow everything.

Lifting my receiver, I call Mona and have her summon Pesek to my office.

“She’s willing to accept a private settlement,” Broderick says. “She’s asking for five million, but I think we can get her down to two and an ironclad NDA.”

“Give her whatever she wants.” I turn my chair, studying the Chicago skyline and its ironically sunny disposition today.

Broderick leaves.

I don’t have time for this today.

Mona calls my phone. I answer on the first ring.

“Mr. Westcott, I’m told Gary Pesek didn’t report to the office today,” she says. “Apparently he turned in his notice via email earlier this morning.”

Fucking coward.

I’ll deal with him one way or another.

I hang up the phone, only to have it ring once more. Without checking the caller ID, I answer it with a brusque, “What?”

“Hello to you too …” It’s Sophie.

Exhaling, I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Rough morning?” she asks.

“Something like that.”

“Anything I can do to help?” Her voice is low, and I picture her in her office, hand cupped over her receiver, a brand of mischievousness in her ocean eyes as her full lips tug up at the sides.

“Yes, actually. You can report to my office. Now.”

It takes eleven tortuous minutes for my future wife to saunter into my space, her hips swaying with each high-heeled step. Apparently the word “now” wasn’t enough to light a fire in her leisurely pace.

“Lock the door behind you.” I point. My cock swells as she fastens the deadbolt, and I loosen my tie.

I meet her halfway, crushing her upturned lips with a kiss as I grab a handful of her ass. Pulling her against me, I untuck the hem of her shirt from her tight skirt, sliding my palms up her silky-smooth skin until I reach the lace cups of her bra. Tugging the fabric aside, I lift her blouse and take a rosebud nipple between my teeth before swirling my tongue around its ridges.