Page 8 of Oops Baby for the Billionaire (Oops Baby #3)

Roman

three months later

I hear the whispers as I storm into the building. I’ve always been a demanding boss, but I know that’s gotten worse in the last four months.

It doesn’t help that it physically hurts to be in such close proximity to where I had Willa for a single night before she disappeared.

Not even an entire night.

Some days, I work from home. Other days, I come in just to punish myself for letting her slip through my fingers.

Today, I have a fucking meeting.

A significant part of acquiring Techbridge Worldwide is figuring out which of the startups it funds deserve more investment.

One of the most promising companies is an art auction site called CurateMe.

I’ve summoned their leadership team to my boardroom this morning.

They’re probably waiting up there for me now.

I like this company so much that they were one of the first I moved into my own office tower, installing them on the third floor. And that’s where I’m going first.

In my experience, when the boss is away, the mice will play—and I want to see what the rest of their team is doing when they know management is upstairs.

The elevator doors open, and I stride through their office entrance. The space hums with productivity, which is a good sign. Workers who stay focused on their tasks when their managers aren’t around are well-motivated people who’ve bought into the company’s vision.

Good. I’m about to turn and leave when there’s a giggle behind me.

“What, you don’t think that’s the customer discovery path?” a masculine voice says.

Then a woman responds, her voice oddly familiar. “I’m hardly the target audience, am I?”

“Why is it that the best curators for rich people aren’t other rich people?”

“Beats me,” Willa says.

Willa.

Not a ghost after all. Because I know it’s her, even before I see her.

“But I think you’re going through this website looking at the most affordable pieces of art, and I don’t think that’s what our… “ Her voice trails off as I appear at the entrance to the open cubicle where she’s leaning over the shoulder of one of her colleagues.

She’s dressed very similarly to how she was that night, a white blouse and black pants, although the curvy little body poured into them looks different.

It takes me a second to process why, but as she takes a step back, crossing her arms over her chest, my hungry gaze lands on the snug pull of her trousers across a slight but unmistakable swell of a pregnant belly.

“Mr. Thorne,” Willa breathes, as if the last time we spoke she wasn’t moaning my given name into the night sky.

Trembling shock doesn’t do anything to diminish her lush beauty. Her dark hair is still long enough to spill in glossy waves over her shoulders, and her pink mouth is still utterly hypnotic, even if she’s not laughing right now.

I toss the briefest of glares at her co-worker. “Get out.”

Willa immediately comes to his defense. “This is his workspace.”

The guy looks back and forth between us. “I can go.”

“Do that.”

“Stay,” she says, putting her hand on his forearm.

I bare my teeth and growl.

He’s lucky I don’t rip that arm from his body and beat him with it.

“Is there a problem?” He looks back and forth between us, clearly torn between wanting to be chivalrous and protect Willa from the big bad boss, and also—rightly—being afraid for his job if he oversteps.

“Maybe just a misunderstanding,” Willa suggests nervously. “Right, Mr. Thorne?”

All I manage to grate out is, “We need to talk.”

Her face pales, but she nods and points across the open workspace. “There’s an office we can use.”

I can’t breathe properly.

She’s pregnant.

She works in my building.

“I don’t understand,” I say dumbly as she closes us into a generic empty office. “I tried to find you.”

She gets a funny look on her face. “Did you?”

“What does that mean? Of course I did.” I shove my fingers into my hair, messing up my bun. I should never have stopped hunting for her. “There were no Willas on the guest list for the party.”

It’s a weak explanation. Of course there’s more, but time is glitching as I stare at her, as she gives me a wide-eyed, silent look back, her eyes swimming with terrified emotion.

“Jesus Christ, you’ve been here all this time?” I hear myself mutter.

And then I reach for more information that she needs to know, because of course I had my team search for her.

“I combed through the security footage, too.” My voice sounds hollow.

Doesn’t matter. I don’t care if she knows how desperate I was.

Her eyes flare with panic. “There’s video of that night?”

I fucking wish. If there was footage of what we did on the terrace, I’d have beaten off to it day and night. “No.”

Relief floods her expression, and it irritates me that she wouldn’t want any record of us.

Doesn’t she know I would never let anyone else see that?

But maybe she has another reason to be relieved.

“Why wouldn’t you want to have a record of being there?” My voice turns hard quickly. That’s one of my strengths in business. I’m ruthless. “Is there a more sinister reason?”

“Excuse me?”

“I think it’s time for you to come clean, Willa.

What were you doing in my private space that night?

” Fire burns in my veins. “Start speaking now, because I’m expected upstairs imminently for a meeting with your bosses.

I had all the faith in the world in CurateMe—I thought it was a good company. But if you were a spy that night?—”

She gasps. “A spy ?”

I narrow my eyes at her immediate protest.

She’s confident, I’ll give her that. She’s glaring at me now, bold, bright eyes not afraid of pushing back. “I was not a spy for CurateMe. Nobody on this team knows I was there, either. I was just—I was?—”

“What, Willa? What were you doing in that part of the apartment?”

“I was cleaning my bra,” she snaps. “Because one of your guests spilled wine all over me, and the catering manager told me to change.”

I stare at her dumbly.

“I was wait staff,” she says slowly.

“Wait staff.”

“Yes.”

“And now you work for me.” I don’t know what she does at CurateMe, exactly, but it’s not the kind of job a waitress can just walk into.

“For one of the companies you invest in, yes.”

“How long have you worked here?”

She exhales. “Three months.”

“Three months.”

“Yes.”

All this time. The burning fire returns. “And you didn’t want to find me?”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly ?”

Her eyes flash. “Are you going to repeat all of my answers?”

“Only the ones I find incredulous.”

“You find it incredulous that I was wait staff at a party that had…waiters?”

“I find it incredulous that a waiter found her way into my private bathroom, with her blouse undone and tits begging to be sucked on. I find it incredulous that you then found your way to work in my fucking shadow, three months ago, and not once tried to?—”

“Don’t assume that.”

“Excuse me?”

“I tried. Once I found out I was pregnant, I knew I needed to tell you. So I tried repeatedly to get a meeting with you, although I never got very far. The first time, I was so nervous. And then I lucked my way into this job, and I thought that might make it easier. Turns out, that wasn’t true.

Do you know how hard it is to get an audience with The Thorne King? ”

I go still. Very still. “You tried.”

“Of course I tried,” she snaps. “But the more I learned about you, the more I feared that you wouldn’t be an understanding man if and when I ever did get that coveted audience. I needed to make the right decision for my baby.”

Her baby.

Our baby.

Everything she said is bouncing around in my head.

I looked for her the next day.

But Willa…Willa didn’t try to find me until she knew she was pregnant.

I took her virginity that night, and gave her a baby.

“I wouldn’t have…” The wrongness of what I’ve done hits me like a sledgehammer.

I pushed myself on a young waitress, because I liked the look of her tits and the way she made me laugh.

And I let myself think she was a guest, because what would it say about me if I fucked the help? “I took advantage of you.”

“I wanted what we did that night.” She presses her hands to the slight swell under her shirt. “I want my baby, too.”

“Our baby,” I correct instinctively.

A mistake.

Fierce, protective fury flares in her eyes. “Don’t say that. You’ve known about this baby for all of ten seconds.”

But I’m feeling fiercely protective myself. “Seven minutes and forty-nine seconds, actually. Coming up on ten minutes, and you haven’t asked me how I feel about you having my baby, so?—”

“Our baby,” she snaps. “If you won’t let me call it my baby, I won’t let you do the same. You are a frightening man, Roman Thorne. I said it the night we met, didn’t I? You look powerful. Dangerous. And people talk. The Thorne King has a way of making problems disappear. Isn’t that right?”