By Wednesday morning, Dominic had three things on his desk.
A fresh redline of the Aspen term sheet from Gillian.
A stack of printouts detailing Reid’s last ten years of occupancy and RevPAR by market.
And a single, glossy photo of a little boy holding a blue dinosaur, printed from the grainy image his assistant had quietly pulled off an internal employee newsletter that had used it—unthinkingly—in a “Meet Our Team” feature on “Our People and Their Passions.”
The passion, in this case, being “family.”
The “team member” had been Charlotte.
The caption under the photo had read:
> “Our VP of Experience Design, Charlotte Reid, with her nephew, Milo, at the Central Park Zoo.”
“Nephew,” he muttered now, turning the photo over and back again.
He knew a spin when he saw one.
He also knew those eyes.
“Staring at him won’t change the DNA,” Maya said from the sofa, feet curled under her as she sipped coffee.
He set the photo down, face up.
“I needed to see him,” he said.
“I get it,” she said. “That’s why I printed it out instead of staging an intervention.”
He shot her a look.
She shrugged.
“Do you have your…talking points ready?” she asked. “If she actually tells you?”
“Yes,” he lied.
She snorted.
“You have…feelings,” she corrected. “Not talking points.”
“Don’t say that word,” he snapped. “It makes me itch.”
“Feelings, feelings, feelings,” she chanted softly.
He glared.
She grinned.
He exhaled.
The past few days had been a blur of numbers and not enough sleep.
The deal was moving. Slowly. Painfully. But undeniably.
Gillian and Reid’s in-house counsel had traded drafts. James had mediated. Eleanor had postured. The board had wrung its collective hands.
Through it all, Charlotte had been…different.
Calmer. More focused. Less brittle around the edges. Like someone who’d made a decision and was simply waiting to execute it.
He didn’t know what that decision was.
He only knew his week was almost up.
“Board vote is tomorrow,” Maya said, as if reading his thoughts. “You planning to drop the ‘you’re a father now’ bomb in the middle of it?”
“No,” he said immediately.
“Good,” she said. “That would be…inelegant.”
He rubbed his temples.
“Eleanor would use my head as a paperweight,” he said.
“She already wants to,” Maya pointed out. “Let’s not make it easy for her.”
He turned the term sheet.
“We’re close,” he said. “Too close to blow it up now.”
“Does that mean you’re going to wait?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“No,” he added, almost at the same time.
She laughed.
“You’re a mess,” she said fondly.
“She told me she needed…days,” he said. “I gave her a week. I can wait until after the vote.”
“Can you?” she asked.
He thought of Milo’s dream, as filtered through Charlotte’s late-night confession.
A man with gray eyes. A briefcase. Flying.
He thought of the way his gut had clenched when she’d said, *He asked about his father.*
“No,” he admitted. “But I will.”
She nodded.
“Okay,” she said. “So we prep for two tracks. One where he’s yours. One where he’s not.”
He shot her an incredulous look.
“What?” she said. “It’s technically possible. We’re not…100 percent. Yet.”
“Look at him,” he said, gesturing at the photo. “He’s—”
“A child with your eyes,” she cut in. “Not a lab report. Don’t get me wrong, I’m at like ninety-eight percent here. But you of all people should know better than to bet the house without data.”
He sulked.
She smirked.
“Track one,” she went on. “He’s yours. You have…rights. Responsibilities. Opportunities to overcompensate for your childhood trauma. Great. Track two: he’s not. You have…closure. Maybe a massive hangover from all this emotional investment. But you don’t have to blow up your life to add ‘dad’ to your résumé.”
He looked at the photo again.
“I already feel like a liar,” he said quietly.
“How?” she asked. “You didn’t know.”
“I told my grandmother I’d never put a child through what we went through,” he said. “That I’d…never have kids.”
“And up until London, that was true,” she said. “After London…maybe less so. But you didn’t intend this. Intent matters.”
“Not to a three-year-old,” he said. “He doesn’t care how he got here. He cares who shows up.”
She nodded slowly.
“That,” she said, “is the only thing that really matters, yeah.”
A knock at the door pulled his attention away.
“Come in,” he called.
Sanjay stuck his head in.
“Sorry,” he said. “Gillian needs you on the Aspen call in five. Reid’s lawyer is being…Reid’s lawyer.”
“Meaning?” Dominic asked.
“Obstructive,” Sanjay said. “In the most polite, patronizing way possible.”
“In other words, Eleanor has given them notes,” Maya said.
“Bingo,” Sanjay said.
Dominic straightened his tie.
“Tell them I’ll be there,” he said.
Sanjay nodded and disappeared.
Maya stood.
“You’ll be fine,” she said. “You always are. Just…remember…if and when she tells you…you’re allowed to feel whatever you feel. There’s no right reaction. There’s just…yours.”
“Thank you, Dr. Phil,” he muttered.
“You’re welcome,” she said, heading for the door. “And Dom?”
He looked up.
“You’re not him,” she said.
He didn’t have to ask who.
He knew.
“I know,” he said. “I just need to…prove it.”
“To who?” she asked.
He considered.
“To myself,” he said.
She smiled, soft and fierce.
“Good,” she said. “Start there.”
***
The board vote on Thursday afternoon was anticlimactic.
In the sense that no one stormed out. No one threw anything. No one leaked the term sheet to the press mid-meeting.
But Charlotte felt every second like a live wire.
The formalities were a blur.
James presented a high-level summary of the Steele partnership. Pros. Cons. Risk mitigation.
Marie walked through the financial implications. New capital. Revised payback period. Impact on other properties.
The board asked questions. Some sharp. Some self-serving.
At one point, Richard harrumphed, “We’ve never needed partners before. Why start now?”
“Because the world is different,” Charlotte said, surprising herself by speaking without looking at her notes. “And we either adapt or watch our relevance shrink.”
He’d glared.
Eleanor had said nothing.
When it came time to vote, hands raised in slow succession.
In favor.
In favor.
In favor.
A couple of reluctant “ayes.”
One abstention.
None against.
It passed.
She felt…nothing at first.
Numb.
Then, slowly, a kind of…pride unfurled in her chest.
Aspen had a lifeline.
Not just for the company, but for her. For her vision.
“Congratulations,” James murmured to her as people shuffled papers. “You pulled off something…unprecedented for this family.”
“Thank you,” she said, voice thick.
Eleanor rapped the table.
“Very well,” she said. “The partnership with Steele Holdings on Aspen is approved, subject to final documentation. Mr. Whitman, please coordinate next steps with counsel.”
He nodded.
“Anything else?” she asked, glancing around.
There were the usual minor items. HR updates. A discussion about sustainability initiatives. A note about a new spa brand they were considering partnering with in Bali.
Then it was over.
As the room emptied, Eleanor said, “Charlotte. Stay.”
Her heart kicked hard against her ribs.
She sat.
They were alone now, save for the city outside.
“Well,” Eleanor said. “You did it.”
“I didn’t do it alone,” Charlotte said. “You—”
“Don’t,” Eleanor cut in. “This is your moment. Take it.”
It was…disorienting.
“Thank you,” Charlotte said.
“You’re welcome,” Eleanor said stiffly. “Now go…do something with it. Don’t make me regret betting on you.”
“I won’t,” she said.
“See that you don’t,” Eleanor replied.
As Charlotte gathered her things, her phone buzzed in her jacket pocket.
She didn’t have to look to know who it was.
In the hallway outside, she checked.
> Dominic: How did it go?
She leaned against the cool wall for a second, letting herself smile, just a little.
> Charlotte: Board approved.
> Dominic: Of course they did.
> Dominic: Congratulations, Ms. Reid. You just made history.
Warmth bloomed.
> Charlotte: Don’t get sentimental. It doesn’t suit either of us.
> Dominic: I’m not sentimental. I’m…pragmatic.
> Dominic: This means we’re partners now.
Her stomach flipped.
> Charlotte: On paper. We still have to sign.
> Dominic: Oh, we’ll sign.
> Dominic: When can we meet? Just us.
The words sat there, pulsing.
Her week was up.
She envisioned herself typing: *Tonight. My office. 7 p.m.*
Then imagined security footage leaked online of Dominic Steele walking into her building after hours.
No.
Controlled environment.
Clothed.
Sober.
With a plan.
Eleanor’s voice, for once, wasn’t entirely wrong.
She typed:
> Charlotte: Tomorrow. 4 p.m. Aspen war room. We’ll have privacy.
> Dominic: Just us?
> Charlotte: Just us.
A pause.
> Dominic: I’ll be there.
She slipped her phone back into her pocket.
Tomorrow.
She had less than twenty-four hours to figure out how to break a man’s life open and still have enough of herself left to walk into whatever came next.
***
He didn’t sleep that night.
He tried.
He lay in his bed, sheets twisted around his legs, eyes open in the dark, counting the slow, in and out of his breath.
Tomorrow.
Just us.
His mind spun out scenarios.
She’d tell him it wasn’t his.
She’d tell him it was.
She’d tell him she’d had an abortion.
She’d tell him she’d had a miscarriage.
She’d tell him…nothing. Deflect. Evade. Smile. Lie.
He couldn’t tell which version twisted his stomach more.
At three a.m., he got up and paced, bare feet silent on the hardwood.
At four, he called Gillian.
She answered on the second ring, voice sleep-rough. “You’re lucky I’m in London,” she said without preamble. “It’s nine a.m. here. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he lied automatically.
Silence.
“You don’t call at ungodly hours when nothing is wrong,” she said. “Or when you haven’t just closed a multi-billion-dollar deal. You’ve done neither today. So. Talk.”
He told her.
Not everything. Not London. Not the way her laugh had sunk its hooks under his skin.
Just the facts.
“There’s a boy,” he said. “He’s about three. He looks…a lot like me. His mother is…someone I slept with once. Around the right time. She never told me. I found out…accidentally. She’s…planning to tell me tomorrow.”
“Jesus,” Gillian breathed. “And here I thought my Wednesday was exciting because the in-house counsel at Reid finally agreed to our indemnity clause.”
“Not everything revolves around indemnity,” he muttered.
“Debatable,” she said. “Okay. Deep breath. Do you want me there? Tomorrow?”
“No,” he said immediately. “It has to be…just us.”
“From a legal perspective, that’s…suboptimal,” she said. “From a human perspective, I get it.”
He exhaled.
“What are my…options?” he asked. “If he’s…mine.”
“In general?” she said. “Or if you don’t want to blow up Aspen?”
“Both,” he said.
“General is easier,” she said. “You have the right to seek acknowledgment, custody, visitation. You also have the right to…walk away. Not morally, perhaps. But legally. If you don’t sign the birth certificate, you’re under no obligation unless she comes after you.”
“She hasn’t,” he said. “In three years.”
“That tells me she’s…protective,” Gillian said. “Of him. Of herself. Of you, maybe. Or just scared of what a mess this could be.”
“Mess is an understatement,” he said.
“Now,” she went on, “if you want to both be in his life *and* not tank your shiny new partnership, we have to be…nuanced.”
He almost laughed.
“Nuanced,” he repeated. “Right.”
“Step one,” she said, “don’t threaten anything tomorrow. Don’t talk about rights. Or court. Or money. Just…listen. Let her tell you her version. Ask questions. Calmly.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be calm,” he admitted.
“Fake it,” she said. “You’re good at that. Tomorrow isn’t about negotiating with her. It’s about understanding where her head is. Her fears. Her loyalties. You can’t build any kind of…co-parenting structure if you don’t know what she wants.”
“And what if she doesn’t…want me involved?” he asked.
“Then we’ll talk strategy,” she said. “You can capitulate or you can push. But don’t commit to anything in that room. No matter how intense it gets.”
He pictured Charlotte’s eyes, darkening when she was angry. Blurring when she was hurt.
“No commitments,” he said.
“Step two,” Gillian continued, “don’t mention Aspen. At all. Not in connection with him. Don’t say you’ll walk if she refuses. Don’t say you’ll tank the deal if she cuts you out. Keep the two separate. It’s the only way this isn’t a hostage situation.”
“I wouldn’t…use him,” he said, offended.
“I know you *think* that,” she said. “You also have a competitive streak a mile wide and a habit of conflating goals. I’m telling you now: don’t. If she says ‘you’re not seeing him unless you drop the management fee by five percent,’ you walk out. And you call me.”
“She wouldn’t—”
“She might,” Gillian said. “Or her mother might. Or her board. Don’t underestimate the Ice Queen’s willingness to pull levers.”
He ground his teeth.
“Step three,” she said. “After tomorrow, you and I retain a family lawyer. Quietly. Not the same firm that handles Steele corporate. We get advice tailored to this…situation. Not to your bottom line.”
“That almost sounded like you care about my personal life,” he said.
“I care about asset protection,” she said dryly. “But yes. Also, I’d rather not see you implode because you tried to wing fatherhood and corporate politics at the same time.”
“I won’t implode,” he said.
“You’re not made of steel, Dom,” she said. “Despite the branding. You break. Everyone does. My job is to make sure you break…softly.”
He stared out at the dark city.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“Don’t thank me,” she said. “I bill by the hour.”
“Send me the invoice,” he said.
“I always do,” she replied. “Now go to bed. Or at least pretend. Tomorrow you need a clear head. And a shirt without wrinkles. First impressions and all.”
He hung up feeling…not calmer, exactly.
But…less alone.
That was something.
***