Page 9 of The Billionaire’s Paradise (My Billionaire #4)

“So then she asked why now was the right time,” I was saying, wine glass in hand. “And I gave this beautiful, heartfelt answer about how having a baby used to feel like a pipe dream and now we’re making it real, and—”

“You cried, didn’t you?” Mrs. Mulroney interrupted, perched on the edge of the velvet ottoman she’d turned into her throne.

She had a throw pillow behind her back and was swilling her third whiskey around like she was trying to fling the ice out before it could dilute her drink any more. “Tell me you cried. I need to hear it.”

“I almost cried,” I said.

“He cried,” Cal said from the kitchen, where he was cooking dinner for us all—because that’s what he did when he needed to process things. Chicken, lemon, capers, and emotions, all simmering in the same quiet rhythm.

“I almost cried,” I repeated, glaring at him over the breakfast bar. “There’s a difference.”

Angus was upside down on the couch. Not figuratively. His legs were up over the backrest, head dangling off the cushion. “Did she show you baby pictures? I hope she showed you baby pictures. I’ve already picked out a novelty onesie that says ‘Panic Baby.’”

“She didn’t show us baby pictures,” I said. “She explained the process. Like a professional. A calm, rational, professional person who wasn’t wearing a dinosaur hoodie.”

“Someone else’s lack of fashion sense is not my problem,” Angus muttered, patting the T-rex on his hoodie like it was a pet. “Please continue.”

“She started with the application,” I went on. “Then told us how we’ll pick an egg donor from a secure database—photos, personality profiles, medical history, and voice clips .”

“Oh, God,” Rashida said, lounging by the window like an off-duty angel of judgment. “Voice clips? Why do you need to hear her speak?”

“Because it’s part of the profile,” I said. “You get a sense of personality.”

“What kind of personality are you expecting? ‘Hi, I’m Ashley. I love yoga, podcasts, and being medically inseminated by strangers?’”

Cal chimed in from the kitchen. “Some people find hearing someone’s voice reassuring.”

“I once did voice work for a puppet show about naval hygiene,” Mr. Banks chimed in. “Educational program. Sock puppets with tiny sailor hats. I played Lieutenant Mouthwash until I was dishonorably discharged for licking the admiral.”

Cal stirred the sauce and sighed. “Why did I think this would be a quiet dinner?”

“Because earlier today you were young and full of hope,” Angus said. “Now you’re a father-to-be and the shit just got real.”

Mrs. Mulroney leaned forward, tumbler aloft. “How many eggs do we get? Is it like a carton? Do we get to check if any are cracked? ”

“We’re not making an omelet. This is biology,” I muttered, turning to Cal for help.

He held up a wooden spoon and said, “Don’t drag me into this. I’m zesting.”

“Anyway,” I said, pressing on. “After fertilization, they test the embryos. For chromosomal stuff. You know—science. And we can find out the sex, but we don’t have to.”

“What if it’s twins?” Angus asked.

“What if it’s triplets?” Mrs. Mulroney countered.

“What if it’s a goat?” said Mr. Banks, who had somehow found a cigar in the pocket of his bathrobe but hadn’t lit it. Yet.

“It’s not going to be a goat!” I shouted, louder than I meant to. Then I took a deep breath. “We haven’t even picked a surrogate yet.”

“She’s next,” Cal said helpfully, plating chicken piccata like he was on the cover of Gourmet Rich People Monthly . “We get matched based on values, communication style, and vibes.”

“Did you just say vibes ?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It’s a legitimate metric.”

Rashida raised her glass. “Well, whoever the surrogate may be, here’s to the future Panic Baby.”

Mrs. Mulroney clinked hers against it. “May it have Cal’s jawline and Matt’s flair for public meltdowns.”

I slumped into a chair at the dining table as Cal brought over a serving dish and began filling plates like the domestic demigod he was. Once everyone had taken their seats at the table and Cal had finished serving, he sat beside me, slid a hand over my thigh, and leaned in.

“You were amazing today,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” I whispered back.

“By the way,” said Mrs. Mulroney. “Did I tell you I’ve already booked the priest?”

“What priest?” Cal asked .

“The one who’ll bless the embryo,” she said, like it was obvious.

“There’s no embryo yet!”

“Well,” she huffed. “I like to be prepared.”

Angus nodded. “Smart. I brought glitter glue in case we need to make a ‘Welcome Womb’ banner.”

Mr. Banks raised his wine glass. “And I’ve brought… guidance.” He held up the compass.

“It’s still pointing at the fridge,” Rashida commented matter-of-factly.

Cal rested his head on my shoulder. “We’re gonna make great dads.”

I looked around at the madness, the wine, the vaguely mystical compass.

“I mean, if we survive,” I said.