Page 1 of Milk For The Billionaire's Little

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KENNAN

“I thought you might want to see this, Mr. Millerson.” Seth, my assistant, slid a magazine across my desk. It landed just in front of me with a subtle thud.

US Business Weekly: Top 40 Under 40—Bachelor Edition.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and let out a slow breath. “How many of these damn lists are there? And why does everybody care that I’m single?”

It was a stupid question. I knew exactly why they cared.

They cared because I was one of the wealthiest men in the country, and unlike many of my counterparts, I wasn’t married, wasn’t engaged, and hadn’t been paired off through some strategic family merger or wealth arrangement. That made me a curiosity. A mystery. A target. And to some, especially the tabloids and those with too much time on their hands, it meant I had to be gay. I was bi, actually, but that was none of their business.

I’d lost count of how many times people—men, women, even a few couples—had tried to arrange “accidental” meetings inhopes of charming their way into a date, or better, into my life. Most of them never made it past Seth. He was a fortress, the perfect blend of tact and steel. He was great at sniffing out an angle and shutting it down before it reached my schedule. Honestly, he was great at pretty much everything.

Seth had been with me since the beginning, before my first major acquisition, before the first seed round even, and he was one of the few people who actually knew my secret. That had never been part of his job description, but it had happened anyway.

Not because I sat him down one day with a heartfelt confession. I didn’t pull him aside and say, “Hey, Seth, just so you know—I lactate.” Fuck, no. It had been much more humiliating than that.

I’d been wearing a new brand of chest pads. Supposed to be ultra-absorbent. Supposed to last all day. Supposed to be discreet. Spoiler: they weren’t. I’d leaked through my shirt—right before a high-stakes acquisition meeting. It was a deep navy button-down, custom-fitted, and now it had two very obvious wet spots across the chest. I hadn’t even realized it at first until Seth came in to drop off a briefing folder and froze.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked out. Ten minutes later, he was back with my dry cleaning, fresh undershirt and all. No commentary. No weird looks. Just handled it. I changed and made it to the meeting with two minutes to spare. And from that day on, he made sure the dry cleaning was stocked, the pads were discreetly stored in the office bathroom cabinet, and the press never got a whiff of it.

Not once did he bring it up. Not once did he make me feel like I was anything other than his very competent, very wealthy, very human boss. His wife had multiple children over the years,and I was sure that played a part in his understanding of the mechanics, but still… he went above and beyond.

Honestly, it was good someone else knew. I didn’t go to Lactin Brotherhood meetings. Too risky. Too visible. Those gatherings were small, quiet, usually anonymous, but all it would take was one person. One, to recognize me.

One click of a phone.

One photo leaked.

Billionaire Lactates.That’d be the headline. It’d be plastered everywhere before I could even issue a “no comment.” And really, any comment at all would only make it worse. It would be a freaking disaster.

So it stayed between me and Seth.

Lord knew I paid him well enough to keep that secret, even if hewasa pretty decent guy at heart. I doubted he’d even told his wife. I hoped not. But even if he had, she seemed the type to keep it quiet if for no other reason than I was her husband’s boss, and his job gave them a very cushy life.

And she was sweet. She’d sent a thank-you card once after a holiday bonus, one she hand quilled, and on it she wrote that Seth loved working for me and that she appreciated how I treated him like a human and not a robot.

I nudged the magazine away. “If anyone calls about the list,” I said, waving a hand, “just tell them there’s no comment. They can read it themselves. It wasn’t as if I even had a copy to read ahead of time.”

Seth tilted his head. “To be fair, when theydotell you ahead of time, it’s worse. They asked for photo shoots and to fill out surveys.”

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. “Right. Fair point. What’s the rest of the day look like?”

He pulled out his tablet and started rattling off the schedule. Meetings stacked back to back. A working lunch. Two virtual check-ins with overseas partners. A brief window around 4:30 where I might be able to breathe, and then a cocktail hour I was scheduled to swing by because I’d said yes, while distracted. Lesson learned.

He also informed me of two charity events that had also extended invites.

“Do I actually need to go to either of them?” I asked.

“Need to? No. But there’s a gala next Friday that’s probably worth considering. Old-money crowd. Discreet people. I’ll forward the details.”

I nodded and stood. “How much time do I have?”

“Three minutes to your first meeting.”

I ducked into the private bathroom attached to my office and changed out the chest pads, just to be safe. The last thing I needed was another wardrobe malfunction. I adjusted my shirt, using the mirror to make sure my pads weren’t noticeable. I looked good. Sharp. Unbothered. No one would guess I was leaking milk beneath a ten-thousand-dollar tailored shirt.

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