Page 135 of Babies for the Big Shot

Totally not the answer that sends a twinge of unease down my spine.

“Oh.” I keep my tone light. “Like an ex? A friend? A second cousin with oddly intimate posing habits?”

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t even really look at me.

“She was important,” he says finally, picking up a fork. “But that part of my life is over.”

That part of my life.

I stare at him, fork frozen halfway to my mouth.

Okay, cool. Vague and ominous. Double whammy.

“Do you, um… still talk to her?”

Nick’s jaw tics. He stabs a green bean with unnecessary force. “No.”

And that’s it. That’s the full sentence.

No explanation. No details. No… anything.

The silence stretches. It’s thick and awkward, and now the garlic salmon smells of tension.

I force a bite down and try not to spiral, but my brain is already there, pulling out the red string and conspiracy board.

I mean, it’s not as if I expected full transparency after our first actual day of cohabiting post pregnancy chaos… but I didn’t expect thecold wall of mystery man deflectioneither.

And the way he looked in that photo?

Happy. Uncomplicated. Someone I don’t even know.

I glance back at the frame. Back at him.

He won’t meet my eyes.

And just like that, my stomach twists. Not from pregnancy, but from the nagging feeling that maybe I’ve walked into something I don’t fully understand.

And Nick?

He’s not giving me much reason to believe I ever will.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Nick

“Isla?Vale.”

Jonah doesn’t bother with pleasantries. He drops into the chair opposite me in the small executive conference room, the morning sun glinting off a stack of folders he’s already sorted by priority. His expression tells me the contents skew heavily toward urgent.

“What have you found out?” I ask, straightening, palms flat on the polished walnut.

“That she’s a vulture,” he replies. “One with an exceptional talent for smelling blood that isn’t hers.”

He slides the first file across the table. A headline glares up at me, “KINSEY COVER UP?”, followed by three pages of conjecture masquerading as investigative work.

Blake Kinsey’s photograph sits in the corner, eyes hollow, jaw clenched. I remember that look, every ex-athlete does. It’s the expression of a man who thought he’d outrun the past only to discover it has better stamina.

“She operates on a pattern,” Jonah continues. “Retired athlete, preferably one who exited under less than glorious circumstances. She dredges up medical reports, combs court filings, bribes former trainers… anything that gives her a thread.Then she pulls until something unravels. When it doesn’t, she fabricates enough implication to keep the clicks coming.”