Page 4 of Milk For The Billionaire's Little

Itwasn’tfun being Little alone. But there were times, especially when work had been brutal, when it was necessary.

I had Marigold. I had Rosco. I had my cartoons and my socks and my bottle and the safe little corner of my world that I’d made for myself.

And that had to be enough… for now.

3

KENNAN

I took one final look in the mirror to make sure I was put together well enough for the gala. My tie was straight, the lapels of my tux jacket sat just right, my hair was neat and presentable, and my chest pads unnoticeable.

It wasn’t an event I’dwantedto attend. Not really. I’d spent the entire week flying between both coasts, buried in back-to-back meetings, barely sleeping. A week-long nap sounded far more appealing than champagne and small talk. But the cause was genuinely a good one, children’s art education, and you couldn’t argue with that. Plus, skipping would’ve raised more questions than it was worth.

That didn’t stop me from wanting to climb into bed and be a slug. Pull the blackout curtains shut, shut off my phone, and sleep until next quarter’s projections had already stabilized. But alas—gala it was.

My driver was already waiting outside when I stepped out. Tonight, we had one stop before heading to the hotel, picking up my date for the evening.

I called her “Mom.”

Bringing her had become my go-to strategy. She loved these things, always had, even when she wasn’t in a position where going was always fiscally feasible. And it was far easier bringing her along than navigating the 20-questions asked trudging through press gauntlets about why I didn’t have a date, or worse, if I was “meeting someone there.”

I had friends who brought regular “event dates” everywhere. Not actual romantic partners, just attractive, polished people who essentially functioned as business accessories for each other. They were great at mingling, smiling in photos, and keeping people from asking too many personal questions. For some folks, it worked. They evenenjoyedit.

But to me, it always felt dishonest.

None of them werereallydating. It was just another form of image management. And the worst part? If theydidmeet someone they actually liked, the public speculation would spiral out of control. Are they cheating? Was the old date real? Is this therealreal one?

No, thank you. That circus wasn’t for me. Let people wonder. At least my mom wasn’t going to betray me toSpringfield Weekly.

We pulled up in front of her building, and I got out to go fetch her. She opened the door before I even knocked, clearly excited. I’d been doing well for a long time and made sure that resulted in her being well off, too. But there had been a large chuck of her life when this wasn’t even dream worthy. It made me happy I could give her this.

“Well, don’t you look dashing,” she said, pulling me into a warm hug, careful not to mess up my jacket. She stepped back and gaveme a once-over. “Very James Bond. I’m going to be standing next to the most handsome man there.”

I smiled. “And I’ll be standing next to the most beautiful woman. So we’re even.”

She was radiant, honestly. Her dress was floor-length navy satin with just enough sparkle that she looked in style and not to the point of being mother-of-the-groom. Not that she’d turn that role down. She’d paired it with the pearls my father had given her for their 30th wedding anniversary. She always made sure to bring a piece of him to these events.

The moment she got the invite, she’d been counting down the days. Unlike me,sheloved galas. She and my father used to save up all year to attend the ones for the local animal rescue and the zoo. Now that I was the one getting the invitations, it only felt right to bring her—especially since my dad passed.

And honestly? It gave me a chance to spend time with her outside of rushed brunches, between meeting calls, and holidays. I needed to do better about spending time with her. I’d been playing the “as soon as this deal” game for too long. There would always be another deal, but there was only one her.

We arrived at the hotel, the same one that always hosted these events. It was all red carpets and gilded fixtures, valet attendants standing at perfect attention, and just the right level of upscale lighting to make even the most exhausted executive look glamorous.

We walked in together, my mom practically glowing, and I could already hear the murmurs of recognition. A few camera flashes here and there. Someone asked who designed her dress, and she beamed as she said she’d been introduced to the designer byher son. That son being me. There was a round of appreciative laughter and more than a few “aww”s.

Inside, the event was a mix of art installations from local schools, cocktail tables, and smooth jazz. It was elegant, tasteful, and, like every other gala I’d ever been too, far too loud.

My mother quickly found a small group of people she recognized from other events. They were already laughing and gesturing with their wine glasses, gossiping and throwing in the occasional nod of approval. She blended right in, not a wallflower by any means. She gave me a quick wave and a smile that said,I’m good, go do your schmoozing.

So I did.

I moved from one cluster to the next, exchanging handshakes, talking strategy, throwing in a well-timed joke or two. It was all very standard, a blur of foundation directors, marketing leads, tech bros who’d made their fortunes on e-commerce apps, and the occasional minor celebrity looking for a photo op.

Eventually, I got stuck in a conversation that started out innocently enough about education grants, then veered sharply into political territory. The kind of loud, pointed chatter that made my internal PR alarms blare.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said with a forced smile, “I’ll be right back.”

I set my cup down on the nearest high table and headed away to… anywhere. Bathroom, hallway, outside for air. I wasn’t even sure where I was going until I pushed open the door to the restroom.

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