Page 10 of Babies for the Big Shot

The door opens.

I glance up, expecting another forgettable face, my thoughts already returning to the acquisition timeline and the redlines waiting on my desk.

But then my pulse stutters. Catches. Lodges behind my sternum.

No. It can’t be.

It’s her.

Same unruly hair tumbling over her shoulders. Same mouth—defiant, dangerous. That same chin, lifted in a challenge to anyone with the audacity to underestimate her.

She’s standing in my doorway wearing a wrinkled blouse, a skirt clinging to her hips with the kind of confidence you can’t fake, and a coffee stain blooming across her chest. My eyes track the shape involuntarily, searching for answers I already suspect but can’t yet name.

She freezes when she sees me. A split-second flash of shock before her expression hardens into something more calculated.

And just like that, the world narrows to the space between us.

My body remembers. The shape of her. The sound she made. The way she gasped into my mouth, breath catching on something she didn’t want to admit.

I should speak. Set boundaries. Close the door on this before it opens any further.

But I don’t.

Because she’s here. In my office. One week later.

Looking every inch the chaos I haven’t been able to forget.

She blinks, twice, her lashes fluttering with a system overload. “Oh. No.”

I lift an eyebrow. “I could say the same.”

“You’re the…” She gestures, as if the sight of me in a tailored suit behind this desk doesn’t compute. “Ofcourseyou’re the CEO. Why wouldn’t you be.”

Flat. Defeated. As if she’s waiting for the universe to hand her one final insult before calling it a day. Then, under her breath, I catch something almost too quiet to register: “God hates me.”

She straightens. Shoulders back. A subtle shift, but clear. She’s bracing for impact.

I should send her away. I should draw the line. I should explain the protocol violation, recuse myself, and move this up the chain.

But I don’t.

Instead, I lean forward, elbows on the desk, my hands steepled. I lock onto her eyes the same way I do in high-stakes negotiations, with stillness that unnerves most men.

She doesn’t flinch. But her fingers twitch on the strap of her bag.

“Well,” I say, voice even and quiet, “let’s talk about your qualifications.”

She swallows. Composes. “I don’t think I’m the right fit for this job.”

“Perhaps not,” I reply. I watch the flicker of offense flash through her eyes. She didn’t expect me to agree. “But I’m not ready to let you leave just yet.”

Her eyes narrow. She looks at me the way someone inspects damage after a crash: cold, methodical, trying to make sense of the impact. She doesn’t see me as the CEO now. Just the mistake she regrets. Or maybe the one she can’t forget either.

She crosses her arms. Her chin tilts up. Same posture, same unyielding spine I remember with my hands on her waist.

“Sit,” I say, my voice dropping a note lower.

“No thanks,” she snaps. “I won’t waste your time.”