Page 29 of Billionaire Alien Boss Daddy

“I won’t,” I cut him off.

He hands me back my phone and walks toward the exit, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. I watch him go, my heart still racing. I’ve done my part for Silas. Now it’s time to focus on what really matters—figuring out my next move with Simon.

I drive back to the office, hands gripping the wheel tighter than necessary. Simon’s earlier text—Return to the office and lock yourself inside—plays on repeat in my head. The image of him standing in the street, unscathed but for the tension in his jaw, lingers. He’s alive. He’s okay. That’s what matters. I park in the underground garage, my heels echoing as I step into the elevator. The ride up feels endless, my reflection in the polished metal doors betraying the exhaustion I’m trying to hide.

When the doors slide open, Miranda’s at her desk, her dark hair perfectly coiffed, her green eyes sharp. She glances up from her computer, her expression unreadable. “You have a visitor,” she says, her voice cool and clipped.

“A visitor?” I frown, my stomach tightening. “Who?”

Miranda doesn’t answer, just gestures toward Simon’s office. I hesitate, then push the heavy door open.

And there she is.

My mother.

Dolores Redding sits in one of Simon’s plush leather chairs, her blonde hair streaked with dark roots, her nails painted a chipped red. She looks up when I enter, her face lighting up with a smile that’s part relief, part guilt. “Claire,” she says, standing. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“Mom?” The word slips out swiftly. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you.” She spreads her hands, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s been too long. Thought I’d surprise you. Take you to lunch.”

I blink, my mind racing. Lunch? With her? The last time we spoke, she was calling me from a halfway house, her voice slurred and her words full of promises she never kept. “I—” I glance at the door, half-expecting Simon to burst in, but the office is eerily quiet. “Okay. Lunch.”

Dodo’s smile widens, and she loops her arm through mine as we head out. We end up at a little Cajun place a few blocks away, the air thick with the scent of spices and fried food. I order a bowl of gumbo, mostly to have something to do with my hands. She gets a po’boy and a sweet tea, her eyes never leaving my face.

“So,” she says, after the waiter walks away. “How’ve you been? Really been?”

“Fine,” I say, my tone guarded. “Busy. Work’s… a lot.”

“I’ll bet.” She leans forward, her elbows on the table. “You’ve always been a workhorse, Claire. Takes after your dad, I think.”

I flinch at the mention of my father—or lack thereof. “Yeah, well. It pays the bills.”

She nods, her smile faltering for a moment. “I’m in a program,” she says, her voice softer now. “Rehab. Here in New Orleans. Six months, maybe longer. I’m… I’m trying to get my life together. For good this time.”

I stare at her, my chest tight. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

“I want to make things right with you,” she continues, her eyes pleading. “I know I’ve messed up. A lot. But I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

I swallow hard, my fingers tightening around the edge of the table. “Mom, I… I want to believe you. But it’s not that simple. You’ve hurt me. A lot.”

“I know,” she whispers. “I don’t expect you to forgive me overnight. I just… I want to be in your life. If you’ll have me.”

The waiter returns with our food, and I’m grateful for the interruption. We eat in silence for a while, the weight of everything unsaid hanging heavy between us.

When we finish, she hands me a slip of paper with her number on it. “Call me,” she says, her voice firm but kind. “When you’re ready. I’ll wait.”

I nod, my throat too tight to speak. I drop her off at the rehab center on my way back to the office, my mind spinning. By the time I park in the garage again, I’m shaking. I sit there, the engine off, my hands gripping the wheel as the tears come. I cover my face, the sobs tearing through me, raw and unfiltered. The emotions war inside me—relief, anger, fear, hope—twisting into something I can’t control. I don’t know how long I sit there, but when I finally lift my head, the garage is still, the shadows long and deep.

CHAPTER15

CLARICE

I’m slumped in the driver’s seat, my hands clutching the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart. Tears blur my vision, and I don’t even bother wiping them away. The weight of everything—Silas, my mom, Simon, the lies, the fear—presses down on me until I feel like I can’t breathe. I choke on a sob, my shoulders shaking as I let it all out.

That’s when a shadow falls over me. I jerk my head up, my breath catching in my throat. Simon stands there, his broad frame blocking out the fluorescent lights of the parking garage. His gray eyes—always so sharp, so piercing—are soft now, filled with concern.

He doesn’t say anything, just yanks the car door open and kneels beside me. His arms wrap around me before I can even process what’s happening, pulling me into his chest. I freeze for a moment, then collapse against him, burying my face in his shirt.

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