Page 9 of Single Dad’s Fake Bride (Billionaire Baby Daddies #7)

HARRISON

T he call came while I was reviewing architectural plans for the Pemberton renovation, my laptop balanced on the kitchen table next to a cup of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago.

I recognized the number immediately—Alan Jenkins, the private investigator I'd hired to keep tabs on the board's activities and to look into Sadie's life.

I could barely afford him, but something told me it was a necessary evil.

"Vale."

"Harrison, it's Jenkins. I'm calling about the substitute teacher you asked me to keep an eye on."

I straightened in my chair.

I'd requested periodic updates on Sadie Quinn's situation, partly for due diligence and partly because I needed to understand who I was asking into my life.

"What about her?"

"Her mother was admitted to Cape Cod Hospital last night. Emergency ambulance call around seven thirty. The daughter's been there ever since."

My coffee mug stopped halfway to my lips.

"What happened?"

"Not sure of the specifics, but the paramedics logged it as alcohol-related. Blood loss. The mother's still unconscious." Jenkins's voice remained professionally neutral. "Thought you should know."

I checked my watch to find it was nearly noon.

"She's been there for sixteen hours?"

"Give or take. The Quinn woman hasn't left the building. Refused meals, according to the nurse I spoke with."

After I hung up, I stared at the architectural plans without seeing them.

Sadie had listened to my proposal yesterday afternoon and I saw the shock on her face.

Something that could make the bravest woman need a stiff drink.

Now she was facing exactly the kind of crisis that made impossible decisions feel inevitable.

I closed my laptop and grabbed my keys.

Her mother's drinking wasn't my problem at all, but I felt like a total jerk for dumping such a shocking request onto her lap when she was already dealing with things I couldn't imagine.

I had to go see if she was alright.

It was the least I could do.

Cape Cod Hospital's emergency department buzzed with the controlled chaos of a busy weekday.

I signed in at the front desk and asked about Janet Quinn, explaining I was a family friend.

The receptionist directed me to the waiting area down the hall.

I found Sadie curled in a corner chair, her legs tucked beneath her and a gray hoodie pulled up over her head.

Her phone lay dark in her lap, the battery apparently dead.

She'd fallen asleep sitting up, her head tilted at an angle that would leave her neck aching when she woke.

For several minutes, I stood across the room watching her.

Even in sleep, tension lined her face.

Her hands were clasped tightly together, and every few minutes, she would shift restlessly, as if her unconscious mind couldn't find peace even in sleep.

The waiting room was nearly empty except for an elderly man reading a newspaper near the vending machines.

A television mounted on the wall played an afternoon talk show with the sound muted, its bright images flickering across the sterile space.

I approached the nurses' station and spoke quietly with a woman in scrubs who confirmed what Jenkins had told me.

Janet Quinn remained unconscious.

Blood alcohol levels had been dangerously high, and there were signs of internal bleeding.

Sadie had refused all offers of food or suggestions that she go home to rest.

"She's been here since they brought her mother in," the nurse said, glancing toward the corner where Sadie slept. "Won't even step outside for fresh air."

I thanked her and took the elevator down one floor to the hospital cafeteria located in the basement.

The selection was limited but decent—sandwiches, fruit, coffee that smelled better than what came from the vending machines upstairs.

I chose a turkey sandwich, an apple, and a bottle of water, then added a cup of coffee and a chocolate chip cookie that reminded me of the ones Eloise favored.

Back in the waiting room, I set the bag on the small table beside Sadie's chair and pulled a receipt from gas earlier this week from my wallet.

I wrote a brief note, folded it, and placed it on top of the bag where she would see it immediately upon waking.

You need to eat something. Take care of yourself so you can take care of her. The offer stands if you need it. - H

I left without waking her, though my fingers itched to lower that hoodie and take her hair out of its messy bun so she didn't wake to a headache.

I couldn't stay, as much as I wanted to.

I had two client calls to make before picking up Eloise, but my concentration felt scattered.

The image of Sadie alone in that waiting room kept intruding on my thoughts.

So I climbed in my car to make those calls before driving across town.

I got wrapped up in work and I was reviewing cost estimates for kitchen cabinetry when my phone buzzed with a text from Elena, Eloise's sitter.

Elena: 3:45 PM: Eloise ready for pickup. She asked about Miss Quinn not being in class today and seemed upset. Just a heads up.

I replied that I would be there in fifteen minutes, then closed my laptop and headed for the school.

Eloise was waiting by the main entrance when I arrived—not in the classroom where I normally collected her.

Her backpack was slung over one shoulder and a book was tucked under her arm.

She climbed into the passenger seat and buckled her seatbelt, but I could see from her posture that something was wrong.

"How was school?" I asked, pulling away from the curb.

"Different."

She opened her book—a collection of Emily Dickinson poems I recognized from Sadie's classroom.

"Miss Quinn wasn't there today. Mrs. Henderson covered our class instead."

I kept my voice neutral.

"Did Mrs. Henderson say why?"

"Family emergency."

Eloise looked up from her book.

"I hope everything's okay. Miss Quinn seemed stressed out yesterday."

"I'm sure she's fine," I said, though I wasn't sure of anything at the moment.

"Mrs. Henderson doesn't understand poetry the way Miss Quinn does. She kept trying to explain the metaphors instead of letting us discover them ourselves."

Eloise turned a page.

"Miss Quinn says the best way to understand a poem is to let it breathe."

"Miss Quinn is a very smart woman, isn't she?"

Eloise shrugged a shoulder and avoided eye contact, and I felt like the bane of her existence as she opened a book and retreated into it rather than opening up to me.

We drove the rest of the way home in comfortable silence, Eloise absorbed in her reading and me trying to focus on the familiar rhythm of our evening routine rather than the complications multiplying around us.

The envelope was waiting on our front porch, propped against the door with my name written across it in formal script.

I recognized the Hawthorne Academy letterhead immediately and felt my stomach tighten.

"Go start your homework," I told Eloise as we entered the house. "I'll be up in a few minutes to check on you."

She nodded and headed upstairs, still carrying her book.

I waited until I heard her bedroom door close before opening the envelope.

The letter was brief and precisely worded, each sentence crafted to convey maximum legal threat with minimal emotion.

The board of trustees had initiated formal proceedings to challenge my inheritance claim.

My sisters had hired an attorney who was now working directly with the board to declare the marriage clause unenforceable and me unfit to lead the academy.

The lawyers contested my ability to lead, my desire to be in this role based on my reluctance to be a part of alumni events, and my sisters added in accusations about my withdrawing from family affairs—all of which were correct but not necessarily relevant.

And based on this documentation, they were expecting me to step in and begin duties as headmaster even before being officially married.

It felt overwhelming.

They wanted me to withdraw or provide the name of my bride to be or they would file legal action against me.

I had seventy-three days until my birthday.

The board meeting was scheduled for next Friday.

Eight days.

I read the letter twice, then set it on the kitchen counter and started dinner.

Eloise came downstairs as I was plating the pasta, chattering about her mathematics assignment and a book report she needed to finish by Thursday.

I listened with half my attention while the board's ultimatum circled through my thoughts.

After dinner, Eloise settled at the kitchen table with her homework while I cleaned dishes and tried to project normalcy.

She worked with concentration, occasionally asking for help with a vocabulary word or a math concept.

By eight o'clock, she had finished everything and was ready for bed.

I followed her upstairs and waited in the hallway while she brushed her teeth and changed into pajamas.

When she emerged from the bathroom, I walked her to her bedroom and pulled back the covers while she arranged her stuffed animals in their precise nightly configuration.

"Dad?" She looked up at me as I tucked the blanket around her shoulders. "Is Miss Quinn going to be okay?"

This confused me.

Sadie wasn't sick but Eloise seemed to think she was.

"Why do you ask?"

"She seemed sad yesterday. And she's never missed school before."

Eloise's dark eyes searched my face.

"You would tell me if something was really wrong, wouldn't you?"

"Of course." I smoothed her hair back from her forehead. "Miss Quinn is dealing with some family issues, but I'm sure everything will work out."

"Good." She settled deeper into her pillow. "I don't want anything bad to happen to her. I really like her."

I kissed her forehead and turned off the lamp, leaving only the small nightlight that cast gentle shadows across the room.

"Sleep well."

I stood in her doorway longer than usual, watching her breathing settle into the deep rhythm of approaching sleep.

At nine years old, she had already experienced more loss and uncertainty than most children twice her age.