“You will *not* tell him.”
The words cracked through the air like a whip.
Charlotte’s fingers tightened around the back of the chair so hard her knuckles whitened.
Her mother stood between her and the sprawling city view, a slim, controlled silhouette against the glass. From here, Eleanor looked like she owned the skyline.
Maybe she did.
“I heard you,” Charlotte said quietly.
“Did you?” Eleanor turned, slowly. Her eyes were shards of blue ice. “Because you looked at him like you were about to blurt your sins right there in my office.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Don’t insult me.” Eleanor’s voice softened, which was always more dangerous than when she raised it. “I saw your face when he walked in. I saw *his*.”
Panic flickered through Charlotte’s chest.
“You’re imagining things,” she said. “He’s a big personality, Mother. People react to him.”
“Not like that.” Eleanor walked closer, Louboutins whispering over the thick Persian rug. “You went white. Then red. He…” She paused, savoring it. “He looked at you like a man who has seen far too much of you in far too little light.”
Heat slammed into Charlotte’s cheeks.
She looked away, throat tight.
“Tell me the truth,” Eleanor said softly. “You’ve met him before.”
Charlotte swallowed sand.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“When?”
“Two years ago.” Her voice barely rose above the air conditioning. “In London.”
Eleanor inhaled sharply. “London,” she repeated. “Let me guess. Around the time you came back ‘a bit under the weather’ from that brand conference. Around the time you suddenly became very fragile.”
Charlotte’s stomach churned. “It was one night. I didn’t know who he was. He didn’t know who I was.”
“You expect me to believe that?” Eleanor demanded. “That you just…tripped and fell into the bed of Dominic Steele without exchanging more than first names?”
“We *didn’t* exchange more than first names,” Charlotte said, anger slicing through the shame. “We lied. Both of us. We wanted…a night. That’s all.”
“And nine months later, a bastard child,” Eleanor said, every syllable etched with contempt.
“Don’t.” The word tore out of her. “Don’t call him that.”
“Illegitimate, then, if we’re being polite.” Eleanor’s gaze flicked to the silver frame on her desk, then back. “You brought him into this family without my consent. Without *his* consent, apparently. And now the man himself walks in here, and you look at him like you’re about to confess everything.”
“I wasn’t,” Charlotte said, even as guilt twisted in her gut. “I know what’s at stake.”
“Do you?” Eleanor’s lips curled. “Because from where I’m standing, what’s at stake is my grandson’s entire future. His reputation. His security. If you tell Dominic Steele that child is his, he will use him.”
“I don’t believe that,” Charlotte said instantly. Too fast.
“Then you’re more naive than even I thought.” Eleanor moved to her desk, fingers brushing the edge of the frame. “Men like him don’t see children. They see leverage. You think he’ll come waltzing in here with a baseball glove and a college fund? No. He’ll demand rights. A say in how the boy is raised. Where he goes. Where *you* go. He’ll hang his paternity over our heads every time we’re across a negotiating table.”
“He has a *right* to know,” Charlotte whispered. “They both do.”
Eleanor’s head snapped up.
“A right?” she repeated. “He had a right to use a condom. Did he exercise that?”
Color prickled along Charlotte’s throat. “Don’t do this.”
“I’m merely stating facts,” Eleanor said. “You made your choice when you decided to keep the baby against my advice. You made another choice when you decided not to track down the father. Now you want to unmake those choices because you’re having…feelings?”
“This isn’t about feelings,” Charlotte said. “It’s about—”
“It’s *exactly* about feelings,” Eleanor snapped. “Guilt. Nostalgia. That ridiculous notion you cling to that honesty is always noble.”
“Isn’t it?” Charlotte demanded. “Isn’t it better than building your life on lies?”
“My life is built on pragmatism,” Eleanor said. “On understanding that the world does not reward confession. It punishes it. I protected you once. I will protect you again, whether you appreciate it or not.”
“Protecting me?” Charlotte laughed, brittle. “Is that what you call threatening to cut me off if I didn’t ‘take care of the problem’?”
A muscle jumped in Eleanor’s jaw. “I was protecting the company. Our name. We were days away from a hostile bid. Any whiff of scandal…”
“A baby is not a scandal,” Charlotte said fiercely. “He’s not a problem. He’s—”
“An inconvenience,” Eleanor cut in coldly. “An anchor. One you chose. And because you chose him, I have done my best to keep this tidy. I moved you into a building with private access. I found a discreet OB. I paid off a nurse who recognized you. I let you work from home when everyone whispered about nepotism. I kept your little…mistake…out of the press.”
“He is not a mistake,” Charlotte said, voice shaking.
“Semantics,” Eleanor said with a dismissive flick. “What matters is that the world does not know. And it must stay that way. If word gets out that the Reid heiress had a child out of wedlock with a rival billionaire, the headlines write themselves. The board will question your judgment. Our shareholders will smell blood. And *he* will have a foothold inside this family I will never be able to dislodge.”
Charlotte’s pulse pounded behind her eyes.
“You’re assuming the worst,” she said. “You don’t know him.”
“You don’t either,” Eleanor shot back. “You know his body.” Her lip curled. “Congratulations. So do countless women. How special you must feel.”
The humiliation hit so hard it made Charlotte sway.
“Stop,” she whispered.
“I will not watch you throw away Aspen and your position here because you can’t keep your heart—or your mouth—shut,” Eleanor said. “So I will be clear, since you forced my hand by threatening to ‘walk’ yesterday.”
She came around the desk, closing the distance between them until they were almost nose to nose.
“If you tell him,” she said softly, each word a precision-cut diamond, “if you breathe a word about that boy being his, you are done here. You will resign from the company immediately. You will forfeit your shares. You will leave this building with whatever severance the board deems appropriate—which won’t be much, if I have anything to say about it.”
Charlotte’s breath caught.
“You can’t—”
“I can,” Eleanor said. “You signed your employment contract. Clause seventeen covers ‘conduct detrimental to the brand.’ I will argue that sleeping with a rival CEO and then announcing the resulting child to the world while we are in sensitive negotiations qualifies.”
The room tilted.
“And Milo?” Charlotte asked hoarsely. “You’ll…what? Ban him from the Christmas card?”
A flicker of something—something almost like pain—crossed Eleanor’s face. It was gone in an instant.
“He is my grandson,” she said stiffly. “I will make sure he is provided for. Quietly. Generously. But he will not be paraded around as some…tabloid mascot.”
“He’s a *person,*” Charlotte said. “He’s not a scandal to be managed.”
“Everything is a scandal to be managed,” Eleanor said. “If you had learned that lesson sooner, we wouldn’t be here.”
Silence hummed.
“Those are my terms,” Eleanor finished. “You want Aspen? You want to be in this company? You keep your mouth shut. About London. About the boy. About anything that might give Dominic Steele the slightest suspicion that he has…produced an heir.”
The phrase made bile rise in Charlotte’s throat.
“And if he finds out another way?” she whispered.
Eleanor’s eyes hardened. “How would he?”
“I don’t know,” Charlotte said. “Faces. Eyes. Genetics has a sense of humor, you know.”
“Then you make sure the only photos of that child that exist outside this office are grainy and indistinct.” Eleanor’s gaze flicked again to the silver frame. “You do not bring him to public events. You do not post him on your precious Instagram. You do not leave his father anywhere he might see him.”
Charlotte’s fingernails dug crescents into her palms.
“He’s not a dog I can hide when company comes,” she said.
“Then find another metaphor,” Eleanor snapped. “Because those are the conditions. If you cannot abide by them, pack your office now.”
Pain knifed through her. “You’d fire your own daughter.”
“I’d fire any executive who endangered my company,” Eleanor said. “You’re not special, Charlotte. You never have been.”
That one struck home.
Breathless, raw, Charlotte forced her chin up.
“I won’t tell him,” she said.
Her mother studied her, weighing the truth of it.
“You *promise* me,” Eleanor said quietly.
“I just did.”
“Say the words.”
Charlotte’s stomach roiled.
“I will not tell Dominic Steele that Milo is his son,” she said, each word tasting like ash.
Eleanor’s shoulders eased a fraction.
“Good,” she said. “Now. Pull yourself together. We have a deal to consider.”
Charlotte stared at her.
“That’s it?” she asked. “I just…promise to keep lying, and we go back to talking EBITDA?”
“What did you expect?” Eleanor asked coolly. “A hug?”
Tears pricked Charlotte’s eyes. She blinked them back angrily.
“No,” she said. “I stopped expecting those a long time ago.”
She turned on her heel and walked out, the door clicking shut behind her.
***
She didn’t remember riding the elevator down to her floor. Her feet moved automatically, carrying her through the glass doors of her own office.
“Charlotte?” her assistant, Dana, started to rise. “How did it—”
“Hold my calls,” Charlotte said, not slowing. “For the next hour. No—two.”
“Of course.” Dana’s eyes widened at her tone. “Are you—”
“Fine,” Charlotte lied.
She went straight to the large window at the far end of her office and braced her hands on the sill, sucking in air like she’d run a marathon.
From here, she could see a sliver of the Hudson. Tiny specks on the water—boats, ferries—moved calmly, oblivious.
Her reflection stared back at her in the glass. Pale. Haunted.
*You promised.*
Her mother’s voice echoed in her head.
“I hate you,” she whispered. She wasn’t sure if she meant Eleanor, Dominic, herself, or fate.
A memory rose unbidden.
The night she’d peed on the stick in her London hotel bathroom, hands shaking.
The two pink lines.
The way her vision had tunneled, sound rushing in her ears.
Calling Mila—not her mother, not her friends—to sob, “I can’t be, I *can’t* be,” and hearing her friend say softly, “You are, minha querida. That is not a disaster. That is…a choice.”
She’d made the choice.
Knowing nothing about the man whose DNA had sparked the tiny heartbeat on the ultrasound screen.
Knowing only that she couldn’t get rid of it. Of him.
She’d held Milo the day he was born, his soft dark eyes blinking up at her, and felt something rearrange in her chest forever.
Now those same eyes stared out from a photo sitting on her mother’s desk, inches away from the man who’d given them to him.
And she’d promised to keep that connection buried.
A knock on her open door broke through her thoughts.
“Busy?” Henry’s rumbling voice asked.
She turned, hastily swiping at her cheeks.
“You’re not supposed to be up here until this afternoon,” she said, forcing a smile. “Aren’t you terrorizing Procurement right now?”
“Terrorizing implies they don’t deserve it,” he said. “I finished early. Thought I’d see how my favorite niece is doing.”
“I’m your *only* niece,” she said weakly.
“Details.” He ambled in, closing the door behind him. His gray hair was more salt than pepper now, his suit slightly rumpled in a way Eleanor’s would never be. He dropped into the chair opposite her desk and watched her with shrewd, kind eyes.
“You look like someone stole your puppy,” he said. “Or your P&L.”
“Is there a difference?” she muttered.
“Depends on the puppy.” He leaned back. “Rough meeting with your mother?”
“Do we have any other kind?” She sank into her own chair, suddenly exhausted.
He grunted. “Fair point.”
She hesitated, then said, “If I tell you something…will you swear not to tell her?”
His brows rose. “That depends on the something. If you tell me you’ve embezzled half the company’s cash to fund a cult in the desert, I might have to snitch.”
Despite herself, she snorted.
“It’s not…that,” she said. “It’s just… She wants me to keep something from someone. A…huge something.”
His eyes softened.
“Ah,” he said. “This is about the boy.”
She stiffened. “What do you—”
“Charlie.” His voice gentled. “I’m old, not blind. Or deaf. Or entirely excluded from rumors. I’ve known about Milo since before he was born.”
Her throat closed.
“How?” she managed.
“I heard your mother on the phone with the lawyer about amending her will,” he said. “‘In the event of a non-marital grandchild…’” He waved a hand. “Then I saw you trying to hide a bump under those large, tragic cardigans. Put two and two together.”
“You never said anything,” she whispered.
“Wasn’t my secret to name.” He tilted his head. “And you never came to me. I figured if you wanted me in that loop, you’d ask.”
“I…” Her eyes burned. “I didn’t know how. Everyone was so…loud. Mother. The board. The press. I just wanted…quiet. For a minute.”
He nodded.
“Your mother asked me to sign an NDA,” he said casually.
“What?”
“Oh yes. Fierce little thing. Thought she could bind the whole family up tighter than a drum.” He chuckled. “I told her to shove it up her…retirement binder.”
A startled laugh burst out of her.
“You didn’t,” she said.
“I did.” His eyes twinkled. “We’ve been at this a long time, your mother and I. She can’t fire me. I know where the bodies are buried.”
She sobered.
“If she found out I told you…” she began.
“She’d be furious,” he finished. “And she can take that fury to her therapist. Oh wait. She doesn’t believe in those.”
A small, pained smile twisted her mouth.
“She made me promise not to tell him,” Charlotte blurted.
His gaze sharpened.
“The father,” he said softly.
She nodded.
“Today,” she added. “We had a meeting with a…potential partner for Aspen. And he…” Her breath hitched. “He’s the one. From London.”
Henry went very still.
“Well,” he said after a beat. “That’s…messy.”
“Understatement of the century,” she muttered.
He studied her face.
“Does he know?” he asked.
“No.” The word was a shard in her throat. “He saw a photo of Milo on her desk. I saw his face when he looked at it. I think he…suspects something. But he can’t know for sure.”
“And you promised not to tell him,” Henry said slowly.
“I told her I wouldn’t,” she said. “If I break it, she’ll… She said she’ll fire me. Push me out. Cut me off.”
His brows rose. “She said that?”
“Not in those exact words,” she admitted. “But…yes. Essentially.”
He whistled low.
“Cold,” he said. “Even for her.”
“She says she’s protecting him,” Charlotte said bitterly. “From being used as leverage. From being…a bargaining chip.”
“And you?” Henry asked gently. “What do *you* want?”
Tears spilled over before she could stop them.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I… I want him to know. Is that…selfish?” She swiped at her cheeks. “Milo deserves to know where he comes from. And Dominic deserves to know he has a son. Even if he hates me for not telling him sooner. Even if he wants nothing to do with us. At least it would be *truth*.”
“And the company?” Henry asked. “Aspen? Your role here?”
She closed her eyes.
“I want that too,” she whispered. “I’ve worked so hard. I’ve put everything into Aspen. If I blow it up now, Mother will say I proved her right. That I’m emotional. Reckless. Not fit to lead.”
“Maybe,” Henry said. “Or maybe she’ll just be mad because you chose something she wouldn’t have.”
She opened her eyes.
He held her gaze.
“Here’s the thing about truth, kiddo,” he said. “It always comes out. Sooner or later. In uglier ways if you bury it. The question isn’t whether he’ll find out. The question is: will he hear it from your mouth, with your context, or from someone else’s with a spin?”
She swallowed hard.
“And the company?” she pressed. “You’re on the board. If this got out…would they…?”
“Lose their minds?” He snorted. “Some of them. The older ones. The ones who still think divorce is a moral failing and ‘brand’ is a logo instead of a relationship. But the world has changed, Charlie. Half our guests have kids from three different marriages. Scandal fatigue is real.”
“The press will still have a field day,” she said.
“For a week.” He shrugged. “Then some celebrity will get a DUI, and they’ll move on. We’re not *that* interesting.”
She stared at him.
“You’d…support me?” she whispered.
He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face.
“I support *you,*” he said. “Full stop. Does that mean I think you should march into a press conference and announce ‘Surprise, I had a baby with Dominic Steele’ right this second? God, no.” His mouth quirked. “I’d at least hire a better PR firm first.”
Despite everything, a laugh hiccupped out of her.
“What I *do* think,” he went on, “is that you shouldn’t let your mother hold this over you like a sword for the rest of your life. This is *your* story. Your son’s. Not hers. She doesn’t get to decide how it’s told.”
“She controls everything,” Charlotte whispered.
“Only if you let her,” he said.
She looked down at her hands.
“I can’t blow this deal up,” she said. “Not yet. Aspen needs it. I need it. If I tell him now, in the middle of negotiations—”
“It will get messy,” Henry agreed. “No way around that.”
“And if I wait?” she asked.
He hesitated.
“I’m not going to tell you what to do,” he said. “I’m your uncle, not your conscience. But I’ll say this: whatever you decide, decide it for *you*. Not to appease your mother. Not to spite her. Not to control him. Ask yourself what woman you want to be five years from now when you look back at this week. The one who stayed quiet because she was afraid? Or the one who…took the hit.”
Her throat ached.
“You make it sound…heroic,” she said.
“It’s not,” he said dryly. “It’s going to suck either way. That’s adulthood. But you’re stronger than you think.” He rose with a groan. “And for the record: if she tries to fire you over this, she’ll have to go through me. And I am a pain in the ass in litigation.”
Warmth flickered under the ice of her fear.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He squeezed her shoulder.
“Now.” His tone brightened. “Tell me about this devil you slept with. Is he at least handsome enough to justify all this drama?”
Her mind flashed on Dominic’s face. The rough stubble on his jaw. The way his eyes had darkened when they’d met hers in that office.
“Yes,” she said before she could stop herself.
Henry’s brows climbed. “That bad, huh?”
She managed a shaky smile.
“You have no idea,” she said.
***
Across town, Dominic paced his office like a caged animal.
Maya sat cross-legged on his leather sofa, watching him with the patience of a woman who had seen every version of his moods.
“Start from the beginning,” she said. “And don’t edit for my delicate sensibilities. I don’t have any.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face.
“I told you about London,” he said. “Two years ago. That bar at the Park Regent. The woman with the…” He gestured vaguely. “Eyes.”
“You mean the one you refused to shut up about for six months?” she drawled. “Yes, I recall. You described her in such loving detail I considered commissioning a police sketch.”
He shot her a look.
“You’re hilarious,” he muttered.
“What about her?” Maya asked. “Don’t tell me she turned out to be Eleanor Reid in drag. That would be a twist.”
He ignored that.
“It was her,” he said instead. “The daughter. Charlotte.”
She straightened, all humor draining from her face.
“Wait,” she said slowly. “*Charlotte Reid* is London girl?”
“Yes.”
She blinked.
“Shit,” she said succinctly.
“Accurate,” he said.
She whistled low. “No wonder you looked like you’d seen a ghost when you texted me.”
He started pacing again.
“I walked into her mother’s office,” he said. “Eleanor did her ice queen thing. Julian babbled. Then the door opened, and she…” He stopped, blowing out a breath. “It was like being punched. She hasn’t changed much. Same hair. Same mouth. Same…everything.”
“Did she recognize you?” Maya asked.
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she looked like she was about to faint,” he said bluntly. “Then she went very still. And she…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “She lied. Said we’d only crossed paths at conferences.”
“And you…backed her lie,” Maya concluded.
“Yes.”
She considered him.
“I thought you were all about radical honesty in business,” she said. “What happened to “data is king” and “information is power” and all that inspirational TED Talk crap?”
“This isn’t a TED Talk,” he snapped. “This is…” He gestured wildly. “This is something else.”
“Because of the kid,” she said quietly.
He stilled.
His throat worked.
“There was a photo on her mother’s desk,” he said. “Of her and a little boy. Two, maybe. In a park somewhere. He…” His voice roughened. “He looks like me.”
Maya’s eyes softened.
“Plenty of kids have brown hair and attitude,” she said. “You sure you’re not seeing what you want to see?”
“His eyes,” he said. “They’re…mine. Exactly. You’ve seen my baby photos.”
“Unfortunately,” she muttered. “You had an alarming amount of hair.”
“Maya.”
“Okay, okay.” She leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You think he’s yours.”
“I know he is,” he said.
She studied his face.
“You’re not usually this sure about anything that doesn’t come with a bar graph,” she said.
He exhaled through his nose.
“I did the math,” he admitted. “Timeline fits. London was two years ago in March. If she got pregnant then… The kid looks about—”
“Yes, yes, I know how gestation works,” she said. “Biology was my only A in high school.”
He shot her a look.
“And you’re sure about the…logistics?” she asked delicately. “No rubber? Broken rubber?”
Heat prickled the back of his neck.
“We used protection,” he said. “At first. Later…” He broke off.
“Later you were too busy being swept away by feelings,” she supplied dryly. “Gross.”
“There weren’t feelings,” he lied. “There was… It was intense. We were drunk. We weren’t thinking clearly.”
“And you pride yourself on always thinking clearly,” she said, nodding slowly. “Hence, the freak-out.”
He didn’t deny it.
“Does she know you know?” Maya asked.
“I don’t *know* know,” he said. “I suspect. Strongly. But no. I didn’t say anything. Eleanor was right there.”
Maya’s brow furrowed. “Does *Eleanor* know? That the kid is yours?”
“Unknown,” he said. “But the way she looked between me and that photo…” He grimaced. “She suspects something. Whether she knows the specifics, I don’t know.”
Maya whistled softly. “So. Best case, they both know and they’ve decided to keep you in the dark. Worst case, one knows and one doesn’t and it’s a whole Greek tragedy.”
“Helpful,” he muttered.
“Hey, you called me,” she said. “You want gentle, call Sanjay. He’ll make you a spreadsheet of your feelings.”
He would have laughed if he didn’t feel like his insides were being scraped raw.
“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted.
The words tasted strange in his mouth. He was used to certainty. Decisions made quickly, executed ruthlessly.
This…was not a hostile takeover.
This was…family.
He barely recognized the concept.
“Legal first,” Maya said briskly. “Always. We talk to Gillian. Quietly. Find out what your rights would even be if you are…biology guy. Whether you want to pursue them is another question, but you need facts.”
“Facts,” he echoed. “Right.”
“And personally?” She hesitated. “What do you…feel?”
He grimaced. “Don’t.”
“Tough,” she said. “I’m your sister. My job is to poke the places you don’t want poked.”
He sank onto the edge of his desk, staring at the wall of glass.
“I don’t want children,” he said reflexively.
“Past tense,” she corrected. “You *didn’t* want children. Before you knew you’d already made one.”
He flinched.
Images flashed, unbidden.
A small boy at a park. Chubby hands. Laughing. Dark eyes that looked up at him with…trust.
Then another image.
His own father, leaning against the motel bar, breath sour with cheap whiskey, saying, “You think you’re better than me, boy? You’re nothing. You’ll never get out of here.”
His jaw clenched.
“I wouldn’t know how to be a father,” he said. “I barely had one.”
Maya’s voice softened.
“You had Grandma,” she said. “And you had *you.* You raised *me.* Remember?”
He shook his head impatiently. “That was different.”
“Different how?” she asked.
“You were already here,” he said. “You didn’t…change anything about my trajectory. You were… Someone had to take care of you. There was no choice.”
“And this is…what? Optional?” she asked quietly. “Because you didn’t know?”
He stared at his hands.
Guilt gnawed at him.
“I walked out,” he said. “In London. She woke up alone. I left a number she never called. I told myself that was good. Clean. No entanglements.”
“If you’d stayed, would anything be different?” she asked.
He thought about that. About waking up with her curled against his chest instead of slipping out before dawn. About offering breakfast. Coffee. A last name.
He thought about the way she’d looked at him in that bar, like she was standing on the edge of something and about to jump.
“No,” he said finally. “If she didn’t want me to know… Kids don’t just happen by accident. Not *now.* Not to people like us. She had resources. Options. She chose to keep it. She chose not to find me.”
“Maybe she *couldn’t*,” Maya said. “You lied about your last name. You gave her a burner number.”
He scowled.
“Whose side are you on?” he asked.
“Truth’s,” she said simply. “You’re both at fault, if we’re assigning blame. But blame doesn’t feed a kid. Or keep him safe. Or tell him where half of his face comes from.”
His throat tightened.
“What if she doesn’t want me involved?” he asked. “What if she threatens to…cut me off from him? Use lawyers. Money. Her mother. If I push.”
“Then you decide how far you’re willing to push,” Maya said. “You can force a DNA test. Petition for rights. It’ll be ugly. Public. It’ll blow up the deal, probably. Aspen. Reid. All of it. But you’d…win. Eventually. You have money. Lawyers. Time.”
He imagined headlines.
*Hotel King’s Secret Son! Reid Heiress and Rival Tycoon’s Love Child!*
His stomach turned.
“I don’t want to hurt him,” he said quietly.
Maya’s gaze softened again.
“I know,” she said.
“I also…” He ground his teeth. “I don’t want to be kept away. If he’s mine. If he exists in this city and I’m just…walking around, building hotels, while he…” He broke off.
“You also don’t want to be your father,” she said gently.
He looked at her.
“No,” he said. “I don’t.”
She straightened.
“Okay,” she said. “So we get organized. Legal. Maybe PR, just in case. But before we launch Defcon One, maybe try…talking to her. Alone. Not in front of the Ice Queen.”
“She lied the first time,” he said.
“So did you,” she pointed out. “You both had your reasons. Now you know more. She knows more. Ask her, Dom. Give her a chance to tell you the truth before you bring in subpoenas.”
He blew out a slow breath.
“You think she’ll tell me?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “She’s got a lot to lose. So do you. But if you don’t ask, you’ll be guessing in the dark. And you suck at guessing.”
He let out a rusty laugh.
“That’s the understatement of the decade,” he said.
“Also,” she added, eyes gleaming mischievously, “if this kid is yours, that makes me an aunt. I have a right to know how many inappropriate toys to buy.”
He shot her a look.
She lifted her hands. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face again.
“I’ll set up a call with Gillian,” he said. “Discreet. Then…” He hesitated. “I’ll figure out a way to get her alone.”
“Invite her to tour a Steele property,” Maya suggested. “Under the guise of ‘showing her what we can do with Aspen.’ Hard to bring Mommy along if it’s on your turf.”
A slow, reluctant smile pulled at his mouth.
“Not bad,” he said.
“I have my moments,” she said. “Usually when I’m not busy rescuing you from your own emotional constipation.”
He threw a crumpled stress ball at her.
She ducked, laughing.
“Seriously, Dom,” she said, sobering. “This is big. Bigger than any deal. Don’t make decisions just to win. Make them…so you can live with yourself after.”
He nodded, jaw set.
He could handle billion-dollar acquisitions. Hostile takeovers. Regulatory hearings.
He could handle one woman and the child she might have kept from him.
He had to.
***
That afternoon, Charlotte sat at the long table in the project war room, a dozen color printouts spread in front of her. Floor plans. Renderings. Budget revisions.
Her team buzzed around her. The Aspen architect gestured at a cross-section on the screen. The project manager droned about supply chain delays.
She heard none of it.
In the back of her mind, two images warred.
Milo, blowing bubbles in the bathtub, giggling when they popped on his nose.
Dominic, sitting across from her that morning, eyes steady, voice smooth, sliding a term sheet across the table as if it were just another day at the office.
“Charlotte?” Peter, her lead designer, blinked at her. “What do you think?”
She jerked.
“Sorry,” she said. “Missed that. Say it again?”
“The fireplace wall in the family lounge,” he said, pointing at a rendering. “We can go with the stone from our original spec, but it’s pricier now. Or we could switch to a manufactured option that looks almost the same for half the cost.”
“Comfort versus budget,” she said automatically.
“Pretty much, yeah,” he said.
She stared at the picture.
Family lounge. Plush sofas. Kids sprawled on beanbags. Parents half-watching them while sipping wine.
She saw herself on that sofa.
She saw Dominic at the bar a few yards away, watching their son.
Her throat constricted.
“Keep the real stone,” she said hoarsely. “We cut elsewhere.”
Peter smiled, relieved. “Knew you’d say that.”
“Everything in this building should feel…solid,” she added. “Like it was built to last.”
Her own words rang in her ears, bitter as irony.
After the meeting, she fled to the small balcony off the end of the corridor. A narrow strip of concrete and glass, technically an “employee wellness space,” rarely used.
She slid the door shut behind her and let the hum of the city wash over her. Cars far below. A siren in the distance. The faint thump of a helicopter.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Her stomach dipped.
She answered.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Reid.” His voice poured over the line, low and unmistakable. “It’s Dominic Steele.”
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
“Mr. Steele,” she said, after the barest delay. “How did you get my direct number?”
“Your assistant,” he said. “She’s very efficient.”
Anger flared. “Dana knows not to give my personal contact to vendors without clearing it with me.”
“I’m not a vendor,” he said. “I’m a prospective partner.”
“You’re a man who’s very used to getting what he wants,” she shot back.
A pause.
She could almost hear his amused smile.
“Guilty,” he said. “Do you have a minute?”
“I’m in the middle of the day,” she said. “So no. Not really.”
“I’ll be brief,” he said. “I’d like to invite you to tour one of our properties. Steele Downtown. Tomorrow morning. Say ten?”
She blinked.
“I’ve seen Steele Downtown,” she said. “If this is a pitch, I read your deck. I know your numbers.”
“This isn’t about numbers,” he said. “It’s about…taste. Execution. I can tell you all day that we do family luxury differently, but it’s easier to show you. If we’re going to work together at Aspen, you should see how we operate on our home turf.”
Her heart kicked.
“‘If’ we work together is still a very big if,” she said. “My mother—”
“Is considering,” he cut in. “I know. She’s not a woman who makes snap decisions. But she did say she’d be guided by your judgment on the guest experience.”
Her mouth tightened.
“Did she?” she asked dryly.
“As much as she guides anything,” he said. “You have influence, Charlotte. Whether she admits it or not.”
Her name in his mouth curled through her like smoke.
“Ms. Reid,” she corrected, more sharply than she meant.
A beat.
“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Ms. Reid. Tomorrow, ten?”
“I don’t think that’s appropriate,” she said. “Not without my mother present.”
“It’s a hotel tour, not a honeymoon,” he said. “If it makes you feel better, you can bring someone. A colleague. An intern. Your lawyer.”
“My mother will see it as an end-run,” she said. “She’ll assume you’re trying to influence me behind her back.”
“Aren’t I?” he asked mildly.
She bit back a sound of frustration.
“Honesty is *not* a good look on you,” she muttered.
“I disagree,” he said. “You always preferred it.”
Her breath caught.
She looked around, irrationally checking that no one was on the balcony with her.
“This isn’t London,” she said. “We’re not…who we were then.”
“We weren’t anyone then,” he said quietly. “That was the point, wasn’t it?”
Her chest ached.
“Why are you really inviting me?” she asked, voice low. “We both know you could send me a video tour and a thirty-page case study.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was softer. “Because partnerships work better when the people in them…understand each other,” he said. “Because your mother doesn’t trust me as far as she could throw me in those heels. Because I think she might actually listen if *you* think we can add value at Aspen.”
She heard the unspoken part.
*Because I want to get you alone.*
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
“Good,” he said. “Text me your answer.”
“You have my number now,” she said dryly. “Clearly that’s not a problem for you.”
“Perks of being very used to getting what I want,” he said, echoing her earlier jab. “Have a good afternoon, Ms. Reid.”
The line clicked.
She stared at her phone.
Then, before she could stop herself, she opened her messages.
> You are aware that meeting *alone* could be perceived as…inappropriate.
His reply came in under a minute.
> Only if we behave inappropriately.
Her fingers hovered.
> We won’t.
Another beat.
> Afraid you can’t trust yourself?
Heat flared down her spine.
She typed, deleted, typed again.
> I don’t trust *you*.
She meant it to land like an insult.
Instead, it felt…true in a way that made her stomach twist.
His answer was slower this time.
> Fair. Let’s give you more data, then.
A second message pinged.
> Ten o’clock. Steele Downtown. I’ll have your name at the door. Bring a chaperone if you like.
She exhaled, long and slow.
Then she typed:
> Fine. One hour. Professional.
The three dots flashed.
> I look forward to…being professional with you.
She turned her phone off before she could see anything else.
Behind her, through the glass, the office hummed on, oblivious.
Inside her chest, her heart beat a staccato rhythm of dread and something else she did not want to name.
***