Page 2 of Daddy's Accidental Babies

I forced my feet to move. I took the open seat farthest from him and nodded politely at the others as they entered. Introductions passed around the table like a current, each person offering their title and role with practiced ease.

When it reached me, I sat up straighter, forcing my voice not to waver. “Savannah Bennett,” I said. “Senior Brand PR Strategist.” The words felt too crisp in my mouth, like they’d been practiced in a mirror and still didn’t quite fit. I smiled because I was supposed to, not because I meant it, and I hoped no one could see the effort behind it.

Dominic looked up when he heard my name. His eyes met mine across the table, and for a second, I couldn’t breathe. Of course he recognized me. He had to. I was Savannah Bennett—his best friend’s daughter—and the last time we saw each other, he kissed me like he had no intention of forgetting. So whenhis gaze lifted and landed on mine, and that steady, unreadable expression didn’t flicker, I knew exactly what it meant.

He was pretending. Pretending not to know. Pretending the past didn’t exist—that we hadn’t had a stupid-hot fling.

He blinked once and looked back down at his folder, as though I was just another new hire, another unfamiliar face in a meeting he didn’t want to be in. I swallowed hard, adjusted my grip on the pen, and forced myself to keep breathing.

I kept my shoulders back and my hands clasped loosely on the table in front of me. I paid close attention as the discussion shifted to projected branding outcomes and market perception strategies. When the man across from me raised a concern about brand dilution post-merger, I leaned forward slightly, added a note in the margin of my planner, and contributed a comment about consumer segmentation without letting my voice betray anything deeper. No one in the room would’ve guessed that my ex-lover—and the father of my sons—was sitting three chairs down pretending like I was a stranger.

But the air in the room was thinner than it had been in the elevator. My head throbbed behind my eyes, and the sound of Dominic’s voice—calm, confident, direct—knotted my stomach. He pitched a strategy point about brand continuity across a multitiered luxury umbrella. I scribbled words I didn’t need to on the planner, just to keep my hands busy. I didn’t let myself look at him again.

The meeting ended with handshakes and promises of follow-ups. I gathered my things with care and waited for the room to empty. Dominic stepped out without looking back. I didn’t know if that was better or worse.

Back in my office, I closed the door and dropped into the chair behind my desk. My heart hadn’t stopped hammering. I opened my laptop to distract myself, clicking into my new email account, hoping for anything to ground me in this new role.

And there it was.

From: Dominic Knight

Subject: We Need to Talk

My pulse jumped. I didn’t open it right away. I sat back in my chair, stared at the subject line, and tried to steady my breathing. After everything that just happened in that room—after the way he looked right at me and pretended—we needed to talk?

I clicked the message before I could talk myself out of it.

You. Me. Ten minutes. 17th Floor.

That was it. No greeting. No signature. No apology. Just a summons.

I stared at the screen, my fingers frozen over the keyboard as my mind caught up to what my eyes had just read.

Of course that was an act in the conference room. He remembered everything.

The question was—what did he want now?

2

DOMINIC

Iwaited in the corner suite of the investor lounge on the seventeenth floor, a space my assistant had reserved with quiet efficiency before the morning meeting ever began. It was glass-walled and private, outfitted with sleek, modern furnishings and upholstered armchairs arranged like a calculated afterthought around a marble-topped coffee table. The skyline cut a sharp edge beyond the windows against a haze of midmorning light, but I wasn’t here for the view.

A tray of espresso and mineral water sat untouched beside the leather folder I carried in but hadn’t opened. I didn’t need notes for this conversation. There was nothing strategic or formal about what I intended to say. This wasn’t about the merger, the pitch, or the board. This follow-up wasn’t even business.

It was about her.

The moment I saw Savannah walk into the conference room that morning, everything I thought I’d compartmentalized snapped free of its restraints. I’d spent two years pretending that night hadn’t followed me across every time zone, hadn’t seeped into the edges of my silence, hadn’t reshaped the way I lookedat women entirely. And I knew, the moment I saw her again, I’d have to figure out what that night had meant to her—because I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since.

Now here I was, only a few breaths away from finding out, and my chest felt tight. I put this behind me, swore I wouldn’t let it hang me up anymore, but the first sight of her had knocked that conviction out of me faster than I expected.

Her name hadn’t been on the briefing. No one said a word about her working here, and it wasn’t an oversight. But when she stepped into that room with color in her cheeks and her shoulders held stiffly, I knew it wasn’t a coincidence.

I checked the time. Twelve minutes since I sent the email. Two minutes past what I asked for, but I let it slide.

I stood and adjusted my cuffs and tie, trying to channel the tension into something productive. I didn’t know what she’d say. I wasn’t even sure what I’d say. But it couldn’t wait. We were both in this now, and I wasn’t going to let her presence throw the entire operation off-balance.

The elevator dinged outside the glass wall. I heard the steady rhythm of her heels on the floor. When the door opened, she walked in like she had every right to be here.

---