Page 136 of Babies for the Big Shot

“ForEdge Magazine?”

“Mostly. But also subscribers, ad revenue, strategic leaks from people who hate their former heroes. It’s a cottage industry. Pain pays.”

I flip to the next dossier.

Case Study: Damon Cole. Once a top draft pick, now an empty barstool someone reserves out of pity. Knee reconstruction, prescription mismanagement, an angry voicemail to an assistant trainer. Vale packaged it into a six-part podcast that sold eight figures in advertising. Nothing Cole’s lawyers did slowed her. If anything, litigation fed the narrative.

Jonah leans forward. “I spoke to Damon last night. He said she starts politely, asks for comment, claims she only wants the truth. When you refuse, the engine revs. She finds whoever will talk, pays them if she has to, and keeps going until the story breaks you or you break yourself.”

A beat of silence stretches between us. I can hear the ventilation humming, the subdued clatter of the trading desk two floors down, the faint echo of a life I run on timetables and discipline. None of it steadies me.

“What did Cole suggest?” I ask.

He exhales. “He said the only strategy that preserved any part of his sanity was to starve her. No quotes, no legal threats, nothing that widens the spotlight. Eventually the audience drifts to a louder scandal. But it took him two years of silence and cost him every endorsement he had left.”

Two years.

Endorsements are the least of my concerns; reputational collateral is replaceable currency. Sara, and the children she’s carrying, are not. Nor is the fragile equilibrium we’re trying to build.

I close the folder. “All right. No engagement. Everything goes through our comms blackout filter. If she wants a statement, she can quote the hold music.”

Jonah arches a brow. “And the board?”

“I’ll brief them before the monthly call. They can handle market jitters; it’s what they’re paid for. What matters is keeping Sara out of the blast radius.”

Jonah doesn’t move. Doesn’t nod. Just watches me in that way he does when he’s choosing his next words carefully.

“You know this doesn’t stop at market jitters,” he says finally. “Even if Vale backs off, which she won’t, you’re still sitting on a live grenade. Sooner or later, someone on the board is going to ask what, exactly, is happening with Sara Brooks. You can’t pretend it isn’t her forever.”

My jaw tightens. “I don’t want her involved?—”

“I know,” he says, cutting me off gently. “But the optics don’t care. This isn’t about morality, it’s about leverage. Conflict of interest. Power imbalance. You’re the CEO. She’s…”

“I know,” I snap, hating the way Rebecca’s words flood my mind.

“And of course,” Jonah says, folding his hands, “she’s pregnant with your children. Staying in your home.”

I don’t respond right away. Not because he’s wrong, he isn’t, but because I’ve already run the calculus a hundred times.

There is no version of this where we emerge unscathed. No scenario where I disclose our relationship and it’s met with polite applause and a fruit basket from Legal.

He sighs, lowers his voice. “Nick, I’m not your handler. I’m not going to tell you how to live. You want to be with her? Good. You want to raise your family? Even better. But you don’t get to pretend the world isn’t watching just because you’re tired of being seen.”

I lean back in the chair, feel the leather creak beneath my spine. He’s right again, of course. He usually is. It’s infuriating.

“You think I don’t know this?” I say, quieter than before. “You think I haven’t mapped every potential headline, every investor reaction, every shareholder who’ll use this to call for a vote they’ve been salivating over for years? I know exactly how this plays. And I’ll handle it. One step at a time.”

Jonah watches me a beat longer, then nods slowly. “Just make sure the step you’re on isn’t the one off the edge.”

Sara falls asleep mid-sentence.

One moment, she’s explaining, again, howYou’ve Got Mailis superior toSleepless in Seattlebecause of “email tension,” whatever that means, and the next, her head drops to my shoulder.

I glance down, halfway expecting her to startle awake and accuse me of breathing too loud during Meg Ryan’s close-up.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she exhales softly and shifts closer, one hand trailing from my chest to her belly, where it settles. It must be muscle memory.