Page 3 of Milk For The Billionaire’s Little (The Lactin Brotherhood #20)
KENNAN
I took one final look in the mirror to make sure I was put together well enough for the gala. My tie was straight, the lapels of my tux jacket sat just right, my hair was neat and presentable, and my chest pads unnoticeable.
It wasn’t an event I’d wanted to attend.
Not really. I’d spent the entire week flying between both coasts, buried in back-to-back meetings, barely sleeping.
A week-long nap sounded far more appealing than champagne and small talk.
But the cause was genuinely a good one, children’s art education, and you couldn’t argue with that.
Plus, skipping would’ve raised more questions than it was worth.
That didn’t stop me from wanting to climb into bed and be a slug. Pull the blackout curtains shut, shut off my phone, and sleep until next quarter’s projections had already stabilized. But alas—gala it was.
My driver was already waiting outside when I stepped out. Tonight, we had one stop before heading to the hotel, picking up my date for the evening.
I called her “Mom.”
Bringing her had become my go-to strategy.
She loved these things, always had, even when she wasn’t in a position where going was always fiscally feasible.
And it was far easier bringing her along than navigating the 20-questions asked trudging through press gauntlets about why I didn’t have a date, or worse, if I was “meeting someone there.”
I had friends who brought regular “event dates” everywhere.
Not actual romantic partners, just attractive, polished people who essentially functioned as business accessories for each other.
They were great at mingling, smiling in photos, and keeping people from asking too many personal questions.
For some folks, it worked. They even enjoyed it.
But to me, it always felt dishonest.
None of them were really dating. It was just another form of image management. And the worst part? If they did meet someone they actually liked, the public speculation would spiral out of control. Are they cheating? Was the old date real? Is this the real real one?
No, thank you. That circus wasn’t for me. Let people wonder. At least my mom wasn’t going to betray me to Springfield Weekly.
We pulled up in front of her building, and I got out to go fetch her.
She opened the door before I even knocked, clearly excited.
I’d been doing well for a long time and made sure that resulted in her being well off, too.
But there had been a large chuck of her life when this wasn’t even dream worthy. It made me happy I could give her this.
“Well, don’t you look dashing,” she said, pulling me into a warm hug, careful not to mess up my jacket. She stepped back and gave me a once-over. “Very James Bond. I’m going to be standing next to the most handsome man there.”
I smiled. “And I’ll be standing next to the most beautiful woman. So we’re even.”
She was radiant, honestly. Her dress was floor-length navy satin with just enough sparkle that she looked in style and not to the point of being mother-of-the-groom.
Not that she’d turn that role down. She’d paired it with the pearls my father had given her for their 30th wedding anniversary.
She always made sure to bring a piece of him to these events.
The moment she got the invite, she’d been counting down the days.
Unlike me, she loved galas. She and my father used to save up all year to attend the ones for the local animal rescue and the zoo.
Now that I was the one getting the invitations, it only felt right to bring her—especially since my dad passed.
And honestly? It gave me a chance to spend time with her outside of rushed brunches, between meeting calls, and holidays.
I needed to do better about spending time with her.
I’d been playing the “as soon as this deal” game for too long.
There would always be another deal, but there was only one her.
We arrived at the hotel, the same one that always hosted these events. It was all red carpets and gilded fixtures, valet attendants standing at perfect attention, and just the right level of upscale lighting to make even the most exhausted executive look glamorous.
We walked in together, my mom practically glowing, and I could already hear the murmurs of recognition.
A few camera flashes here and there. Someone asked who designed her dress, and she beamed as she said she’d been introduced to the designer by her son.
That son being me. There was a round of appreciative laughter and more than a few “aww”s.
Inside, the event was a mix of art installations from local schools, cocktail tables, and smooth jazz. It was elegant, tasteful, and, like every other gala I’d ever been too, far too loud.
My mother quickly found a small group of people she recognized from other events.
They were already laughing and gesturing with their wine glasses, gossiping and throwing in the occasional nod of approval.
She blended right in, not a wallflower by any means.
She gave me a quick wave and a smile that said, I’m good, go do your schmoozing.
So I did.
I moved from one cluster to the next, exchanging handshakes, talking strategy, throwing in a well-timed joke or two.
It was all very standard, a blur of foundation directors, marketing leads, tech bros who’d made their fortunes on e-commerce apps, and the occasional minor celebrity looking for a photo op.
Eventually, I got stuck in a conversation that started out innocently enough about education grants, then veered sharply into political territory. The kind of loud, pointed chatter that made my internal PR alarms blare.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I said with a forced smile, “I’ll be right back.”
I set my cup down on the nearest high table and headed away to… anywhere. Bathroom, hallway, outside for air. I wasn’t even sure where I was going until I pushed open the door to the restroom.
Relief. Dimmer lights. Quieter. And far fewer people.
But not entirely silent. Fuck. I wasn’t truly alone. Still better than where I was.
Two men were at the sinks, huddled over a phone and giggling like they were back in high school.
I kept to myself. Did my business. Tried to tune them out. But some things… some things were hard not to hear.
“Can you believe this?” one of them said, his voice a cross between mockery and disbelief. “This app. You can rent a guy who lactates. Ew. ”
“Wait, what?” the other one asked. “Why’s that gross? If I lactated, I’d be on there. Do you know how much money you could make?”
The first one made a noise of disgust. “No, thanks. Just keep your kinks out of this.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even look at them. But their conversation did two very specific things.
First—it affirmed, without a doubt, that I did not want the public to know what my body could do.
And second—it reminded me that I really, really needed to get on that app.
When I finally got home and was finally alone, I loosened my tie and kicked off my shoes, headed straight to my bedroom, and pulled out my laptop. I had one tab open for emails, just in case anything exploded at work, and one for a private browser window.
It didn’t take long to find it.
Sure enough, there it was. The app.
Its interface was professional looking. It wasn’t some sketchy, “is this legit” situation.
The platform connected people—men, women, nonbinary folks who lactated—with people who wanted to connect with them for a variety of reasons.
There were privacy features, ID verification for both parties, even optional contracts for long-term arrangements.
Whatever protections you were looking for, you could opt for…
for a price, of course. Not that money was an issue for me.
It was intriguing. Tempting, even.
Of course, there were no security measures once people met in person, which was the only thing to give me pause. That was something I’d have to handle carefully. But the clientele? They weren’t gawking. They weren’t mocking. They were looking for exactly what I could offer.
And it wasn’t like I had to post a profile saying, “Hi, I’m CEO Mr. Millerson, billionaire, top 40 under 40, surprise lactator.”
The site allowed faceless profile pics. And if I met up with anyone, I’d probably use a mask. Like masquerade ball type mask.
I clicked through a few profiles. Some were bold. Others soft. Some looked for play, others for quiet companionship. One man had a photo of just his hand holding a baby bottle with a caption: warm comfort, no questions asked.
I leaned back in my chair, eyes scanning the page.
This had potential.
And after a night of mingling, of small talk, of dodging conversations and smiling through it all, the thought of someone wanting me for something real—even if only part of me—was more appealing than I expected.
Maybe I’d wait until next week. Maybe I’d draft a profile tonight. Maybe I’d keep it tucked in drafts and reread it three times before I sent it live.
But I was doing this.