Page 85 of Accidental Doctor Daddy

Carrie cleared her throat, squaring her shoulders with that brisk authority. “Now, get out of my office. We have a double tomato shipment to deal with.”

A half-laugh, half-sob escaped me. “Right. On it, boss.”

I spotted Winner lurking near the kitchen pass, shooting me a curious glance. I forced a bland smile. “You need something to do, or what?”

“Just checking if you need help,chef.”

I ignored her pointed tone, stepping briskly into the kitchen. Jean-Paul waved me over, asking about sauce variations. Fine—work, I could manage. My personal life was a circus, but at least I was in my element here.

As I directed the staff to store tomatoes, re-label containers, and handle the usual Monday chaos, my mind swirled with everything Carrie had said.

Seth might sabotage Dom.

The thought made me bristle. Amid the bustle, my phone buzzed. Curiosity gnawed, but I held off checking, focusing on finishing the morning tasks. If it was Dom, I’d catch up once I wasn’t in front of prying eyes. If it was Winner’s next rumor, I'd fling my phone into the fryer. Or at her head.

By noon, the shipments were squared away, and I finally retreated to the alley behind the kitchen for a moment of quiet. Leaning against the brick wall, I pulled out my phone. Sure enough, Dom had texted.

Dom:No word from Leonardo yet. Gina’s worried. Let me know if you’re okay.

My heart squeezed. His kids are being a handful, but he’s worried about me. That sweet man.

Me:I’m fine. Had an awkward talk with Carrie. She knows everything now.

Dom:Everything? You okay?

Me:Shaky, but we’ll manage. Seth might be an issue. But it’s out in the open now.

Dom:I’m sorry. If I can help, let me know. I’m here.

Me:Thanks. One crisis at a time.

With that, I pocketed my phone, letting out a breath. Carrie was mad, but we’d come to an understanding. Dom was dealing with his own fallout. The staff might gossip, but I had no regrets about claiming Dom openly—except for how it might impact him.

Still, as I headed back inside, I squared my shoulders.Let them talk.Carrie had forgiven me. The rest of the staff could whisper all they wanted about my “ancient boyfriend”. The only thing that truly mattered was me, Dom, and our girls.

And if that meant handling a few meltdown Mondays, so be it.

Chapter 32

Dom

I’d always prided myself on composure—working in the ED had taught me how to thrive when chaos raged. I loved being the calm, level headed one in a storm. But as I left work this evening, I couldn’t deny the tension in my shoulders, the solid set of my jaw. Chaos was taking its toll.

My son still wasn’t responding to my messages, and his silence gnawed at me. I’d done what I had to do, telling him about the twins and my relationship with Ella. Honesty was the only way forward. Now, he was holed up in that questionable loft, ignoring every attempt I made.

Fine. If he wouldn’t come to me, I’d go to him. I’d raised that boy. I wasn’t about to let him spiral without at least making an effort.

Traffic moved sluggishly through the city, the orange glow of streetlights illuminating my thoughts. The way he’d stormed out upon learning the truth of the matter…it stung, but I’d known it could happen.

Better face it now than live a lie. Or worse—have him find out on his own.

I parked at the edge of the run-down lot adjacent to his building. Typical. He insisted on living in a half-gentrifiedneighborhood, citing “vibe” and “artistic atmosphere”, as if that made up for a lack of safety. He had enough in his trust fund to live somewhere better. I was pretty sure he picked this neighborhood to spite me.

I buzzed the metal door at his loft, letting the speaker crackle. No response initially, but I wasn’t leaving without seeing him. After the third try, a static-laced voice barked a terse acknowledgment. The door clicked open.Not exactly a red-carpet invite, but I’ll take it.

Inside, I climbed the rickety stairs, ignoring the stench of stale cigarettes and questionable housekeeping. Tension tightened my gut with each step. His door was half-open, neon light spilling into the corridor. I stepped in, eyes adjusting to the dim interior.

The place was a wreck—beer cans, empty liquor bottles, and the stale odor of a wasted weekend. Some furniture was overturned, or that might have been how he kept things. Crumpled mail sat atop horizontal surfaces with no rhyme or reason. Tall canvases lined the walls. Four of them, each as tall as me, had been painted with various themes and designs. But he’d taken a can of red paint to them, and a slash of crimson ruined the artwork.

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