Page 2 of Milk For The Billionaire's Little

Back at my desk, I grabbed the folder for the first meeting. Seth handed me a bottle of water and a protein bar—my breakfast,apparently—and we walked to the conference room together. The door swung open, and I slipped into business mode.

And for the next five hours, that was where I lived. Contracts, projections, negotiations. A pitch deck here. A vendor concern there. Back-to-back meetings, barely time to breathe between them. But even in the thick of it, the damn magazine cover kept creeping into my mind.

Top 40 under 40.

Bachelor Edition.

Eligible.Untouched.A little bit dangerous.

As if I were dangerous. I mean, I suppose if you meant as a business competitor, maybe. But even that was a stretch. I was hardly what anyone would call ruthless.

I could already hear the questions. They always came in waves, usually when some article about my dating life, or lack thereof, made it into the news cycle. Investors would suddenly want to “chat over drinks.” PR would want to manage the narrative. And some family friend’s daughter, niece, godchild, cousin, would magically be in the city and “hoping to grab a quick lunch.” I had a folder in my inbox just for those.

Eventually, the rumors would start up again too. Gay. Secret relationship. Secret baby. Secret marriage. One of them had said I had a secretvampire husband,which was frankly more entertaining than it was insulting.

But none of it was real.

There were no partners. No secret loves. No fake engagements. And no vampire husbands—though if I ever got around to dating again, someone with fangs might not be the worst idea.

Still, it was exhausting. Not because I was ashamed. Not because I hated being alone.

But because it wasneverjust about me. It was always about what people thought I represented. A billionaire, single, under 40. There had to besomethingwrong with me, right? And heaven forbid it be something as ordinary as being picky. Or busy. Or just not willing to date someone who saw me as a bank account first and a person second.

By the time my 3:45 meeting wrapped, my shirt was damp again. Just a little. I excused myself, shot Seth a look, and stepped back into the private bathroom. Changed again. Thanked the universe that I’d installed a mini fridge in there for emergencies—protein drinks, cold compresses, nipple cream, backup pads. Corporate executive meets lactating machine. What a time.

When I stepped back out, Seth was waiting by the desk, tablet in hand.

“You’ve got a brief window,” he said. “Fifteen minutes before the next call. Want me to hold your messages so you can breathe?”

I gave him a grateful look. “Please.”

I sat down, finally letting my body sink into the chair. Rolled my shoulders. Flexed my fingers. The magazine was still there, the headline grinning up at me like a dare. I picked it up and flipped through the pages until I found my profile. Center spread, just off the spine. Full-color photo, gray suit, smirking at the camera like I had some secret worth chasing. It was an old picture, my hair a tad longer.

I looked… good. Polished. Powerful. Alone.

The article said I was “intensely private,” “a shrewd negotiator,” and “rumored to be involved in a long-distance, under-the-radar relationship with someone in finance.” Which was total fiction. I didn’t even like people in finance. For them, everything was about money.

But what could I do? I couldn’t exactly issue a statement that said,“Actually, I’m not dating because I’m more focused on building my company, managing my public image, hiding the fact that I lactate, and trying to avoid letting anyone get close enough to hurt me.”

Not a great look.

So I let the stories spin. Let the mystery build. Let them believe whatever they wanted, because at least that kept the truth safe.

Seth stepped back in, cleared his throat gently. “Five minutes.”

I stood, smoothed my shirt again, and set the magazine face-down on the desk.

And back to work it was.

2

JAMES

Today sucked.

No—todaytriplesucked.

I’d pulled a double shift at work thanks to not one, not two, butthreeno-call, no-shows. I’d been running around like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to keep everything afloat, and it still felt like the place might topple over.

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