Page 10 of Oops Baby for the Billionaire (Oops Baby #3)

Roman

The first thing I do when I get out of the meeting with the CurateMe execs is summon my head of security to my office.

I’m furious for myself for assuming that Willa was a guest and not at that party in another capacity. But why do I pay a trained professional if not to consider all possible angles?

He arrives within minutes, his expression neutral as always. I’ve always appreciated his reserved nature, but today that composure grates on my already frayed nerves.

“Sit,” I command, though I remain standing behind my desk.

He sits.

“Four months ago, I asked you to find a woman named Willa who attended the Techbridge Worldwide party.” My voice is deceptively calm. “Do you remember what you told me?”

“We looked into it. No such person existed on the guest list.”

“The guest list.” I lean forward, planting my fists on the desk. “When you run security for an event, do only the guests matter? Or should you consider every single person who enters the premises a potential security concern?”

A flicker of uncertainty crosses his face. “I wasn’t under the impression that it was a security concern, but yes?—”

“Then why,” I roar, slamming my hand down hard enough to make my laptop jump, “did you not check the fucking catering staff?”

He straightens. “Sir, you said she was at the party. I assumed?—”

“You assumed.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “That makes you useless to me. She was working that party. One of the catering hires. Using the service elevators, the service entrances—all the areas that should have been under your surveillance.”

“I can pull those records now.”

“Now?” I round the desk, and he stands quickly, taking a defensive step back.

Good. He should be worried. “She’s been working in this building for three months.

I found her today, by accident. And it turns out, she tried to get to me, too, but was blocked at every turn.

There is a fundamental problem with the security protocols if I ask about a woman named Willa and then a woman named Willa can’t get to me. ”

“I’ll look into the?—”

“She’s pregnant ,” I roar.

His eyes widen. “Mr. Thorne, if you’d specified?—”

“If I’d specified?” My voice drops to a dangerous whisper.

“I pay you to be thorough and think of the angles I don’t.

Instead, you did the bare minimum and called it a day.

Do you know what your incompetence cost me?

” I’m in his face now, close enough to see the sweat beading at his temple.

“Four months. Four months of her thinking I didn’t care enough to look for her properly.

Four months of my child growing without me knowing it existed. ”

“You’re done.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Fired. Terminated. Get the fuck out of my building.” I turn my back on him, returning to my desk. “You have one hour to clear out your office. After that, if you’re still on the premises, I’ll have you escorted out.”

“This is a mistake. You’re being emotional?—”

I spin around so fast he stumbles backward. “Emotional? You’re right. I am emotional. I’m fucking livid. Willa thought I didn’t care enough to find her.”

“How was I supposed to know she was that important?”

“Do I ask for things that aren’t important?”

He doesn’t have an answer for that.

After he leaves, and I inform HR of my rash but necessary decision, I lean back in my chair, the anger slowly morphing into painful regret. Not for firing someone—he deserved it for not doing a thorough job, and his severance will be appropriate.

But I have intense guilt about the time lost.

Willa was here all along, carrying my child.

I outsourced a job I should have fully handled myself.

And now I have to convince her that I’m not the monster she thinks I am.