Page 111 of Babies for the Big Shot

And I’m not the only one who needs him anymore.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Nick

I don’t call ahead.

Rebecca’s assistant tries to block me at the front desk, but one look is enough to make her step aside. I walk past her without breaking stride, heading straight for Rebecca’s corner office as if I still own the damn place, as if I never left this mess behind.

She’s sitting at her desk, looking exactly the way she always does: blood-red silk draped over her, every inch of her poised and perfect, as though she’s been waiting for this moment with the cool detachment of someone who always gets what they want.

She doesn’t seem surprised to see me.

“Nick,” she says with that faint, practiced smile, as if I’m just a few minutes early for brunch instead of about to destroy everything she’s built. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I slam the door behind me. “Don’t.”

Her brow lifts in feigned innocence. “Don’t what?”

I toss the manila folder Jonah handed me onto her desk with a force that makes the papers spill across the marble surface. Screenshots, tabloid headlines, my name and Sara’s in big, bold, scandal hungry print.

Words like “inappropriate workplace relationship” and “pattern of behavior” jump off the page. There’s even that side-by-side shot of me walking into the gala with her, and the stolen one, grainy, intimate, of us in the lobby after.

Too many photos from a night we were never supposed to be seen at.

Her eyes scan over them slowly, almost disinterested, as though this is just another Tuesday for her. “Tabloids have always loved you, Nick. You are the most unattainable bachelor CEO in the city. Shit, both men and women want you, everyone else envies you, and the worst part? You don’t even try.”

My jaw tightens. “It was a legal hit. You know it.”

She shrugs. “Didn’t look that way in the press.”

I don’t bite. Not now. Not when I’ve got the fire of a goddamn furnace crawling up my spine. “Cut the bullshit, Rebecca. I know exactly what this is.”

She leans back, steepling her fingers as if she’s got all the time in the world. “Do you?”

“You’re behind this.” I gesture to the chaos in front of us. “The leaks, the timing, the missing photo. You’re the only one who had access.”

She scoffs, as though this is beneath her. “Please. If I wanted to come after you, I wouldn’t waste time with some bottom-tier gossip site. I’d take it to theTimes.”

“And you didn’t?” I snap.

“No,” she says, her tone flat now. “I didn’t.”

I watch her face closely. I’m looking for a flicker of guilt, something, anything, to tell me I’m right. But there’s nothing. Not even a hint of the smirk she gets when she lies. Just cold indifference.

“Then who did?” I demand.

She lets out a half laugh, her expression hardening, crossing her legs as though she’s the one in control.

“I don’t know, Nick. Maybe someone else realized that Sara’s just the flavor of the month. That she’s nothing new. And that you…” She jabs a finger at me. “You fall for the same type over and over. Wide eyes, pretty mouth, damsel in distress routine.”

My fists clench.

“Careful,” I growl, my voice low. “You’re treading a line you won’t come back from.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” she waves a hand dismissively. “You think you’re different now? That playing house with your assistant makes you a hero instead of a cliché?”

“She’s not my assistant,” I snap, cold as ice. “I’ve told you that a thousand times.”