Page 34 of Daddy's Accidental Babies

Before I could press further, a junior executive rounded the corner and called to her, his tablet already open. “Savannah, we need you in room three—budget alignment.”

She gave me a polite nod and followed him down the hallway, mumbling, “Talk later?” I watched her go, but something about her expression didn’t sit right.

Maybe it was me being insecure about what was going on between us, or maybe that picture of her with the little boy, no more than four or five years old, had really rattled me. But something in my gut told me she was keeping something from me, and now, of all times, was the worst possible moment to get obsessed over it.

I took the elevator to the rooftop terrace, needing the space more than the coffee I ordered from the kiosk in the corner. The breeze up there was mild, and the skyline cut clean across the view like it always did. I didn’t look out at it. I found a seat,sipped my drink, and stared at the concrete under my shoes, trying to keep my focus on the next task and not the lingering questions in my head.

It was a colossal feat to put the doubts out of my mind, but I managed to open my phone and start going through my emails, and after reading and responding to a few, I felt better. I finished my coffee and dumped the empty paper cup in the trash.

When I stepped back inside and made my way down the hallway, I passed two interns near the window, hunched over one of their phones with grins that were far too satisfied.

“Look at this one,” one of them whispered. “Those twins look just like him.”

I didn’t stop walking, but my ears burned, and my pace shifted just slightly as my mind scrambled to process what I had heard. Twins? Him? Were they talking about some celebrity post? Some influencer’s family spread on a gossip blog? Or were they looking at pictures of Savannah—pictures I hadn’t seen, that maybe I should’ve? That was, after all, what our analysts were supposed to be analyzing—the social push for my PR stunt.

The thought burrowed deep as I passed them without glancing over, too aware of how easy it would be to look, to ask, to spiral. But I refused to sate my curiosity.

I kept moving, but the conversation chased me down the hallway and into my office, each word echoing louder than the last. The conversation was too coincidental, and no matter how I tried to focus on the tasks in front of me, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bigger was starting to unfold—and I was already behind on figuring it out.

17

SAVANNAH

The PR conference room always felt too cold to me, even on a day like today when the building’s HVAC system seemed to have finally caught up with the lingering autumn warmth. The long, paneled table stretched toward the windows, where the blinds had been drawn to reduce glare. I stood near the whiteboard, tapping the capped end of a dry-erase marker against my palm while the core team filtered in with laptops, notepads, and half-hearted greetings. No one looked relaxed, and none of the greetings held any real warmth.

The usual idle chatter had dried up. People kept their heads down and did their jobs, but meetings like this were inevitable when such huge shifts in company culture happened.

Everyone knew the executive board was watching us. Every deck we built, every rollout plan we presented—it all carried more weight than normal. And right now, it was my job to keep the group focused, even though I was barely holding it together myself. The problem was, I was so new to this, I didn’t think any of them trusted me yet.

“Let’s jump in,” I said as I stepped back and gestured to the digital slide on the screen. The header read:Integrated Strategy for Q3 Launch: Narrative Pillars and Influencer Sync.

Monica, seated at the middle of the table, gave a curt nod and typed something quickly into her open laptop. Kyle and Elena barely looked up from their screens. The only sound in the room was the rapid tap of keys and the occasional shuffle of papers. I wasn’t sure if they were readying themselves to take notes or messaging on Facebook.

I clicked to the next slide and spoke slowly, making sure my voice stayed even. “We’ve aligned our brand messaging across three channels: retail, digital, and event-based. We’ll need support from the design and analytics team by Friday if we want to meet the regional deadlines.” The content was boring to me; I’d gone over it a dozen times already this week alone, so I let my mind drift while I spoke and watched their reactions.

I hadn’t heard back from legal about the doctored PDF except to say they were flagging it and adding it to a query that was already open about one of my analysts, but they didn’t say which one. And I had no clue why there was a query open or what it meant, probably not something good.

Kyle asked a question about demographic targeting, and I answered without looking at my notes. Every word had been drilled into my head over the last forty-eight hours. I had memorized the numbers, cross-checked every chart, and laid out every contingency plan. It wasn’t the content that made my pulse race. It was the door.

It opened twelve minutes into the meeting, when we were in the thick of reporting features and demographics. Marla entered like nothing was wrong, like she wasn’t late, and that strange interaction in the ladies’ room hadn’t happened. She wore a sharp navy dress and carried a tablet under one arm. She didn’t offer an apology or even a greeting when she walkedin. She made a beeline for the table, selected the seat directly across from Kyle, and settled into it without once looking in my direction, as if arriving twelve minutes late was routine and unworthy of comment.

Though I was thoroughly annoyed at the unprofessional entrance, I finished my sentence, advanced the slide, and moved on. But I felt the shift immediately, the way an engine stutters when it’s about to run out of gas.

The team had already been tight-lipped and focused before she arrived, but now their attention fractured completely. Several people shifted in their chairs, glancing toward Marla as if waiting for an explanation that never came. Monica adjusted her laptop and stopped typing, while Kyle closed the spreadsheet he had open, his shoulders tense. The rhythm we had built over the last ten minutes dissipated into a murmur of side glances and silence.

We made it through the rest of the meetings on sheer determination, and I directed questions to specific people, kept them engaged with direct prompts, and paused often to let them contribute. A few offered feedback. Most said very little. Marla didn’t say a word.

When we finally wrapped, Monica gathered her things quickly and offered me a sympathetic glance on the way out. Kyle mumbled something about email follow-ups, and Elena shut her laptop and was the first to dash out of the room. One by one, they left until it was only me and Marla.

She stood, smoothing the front of her dress as she turned toward the door.

“Marla, hang back a second. I want to run through one of the vendor notes,” I said casually, but I watched her shoulders tense and her forehead wrinkle as she crossed her arms and leaned against the table like she had all the time in the world.

“Sure,” she mewled, and I got the sickening feeling I was looking at the person who messed with my documents. The comment she made in the bathroom, the way she happened into my meeting late without remorse—it was too coincidental. My gut told me she was the one responsible, but I had no clue why she would want to sabotage me. The only thing I could think was that it was jealousy maybe? I’d been given this job and she wanted it?

I walked to the head of the table, pulled a printout from my folder, then turned and walked back to stand closer to her. I didn’t hand it to her, but I said, “You’ve had access to the draft messaging documents for the Milan launch, correct?”

Her mouth pulled into an almost amused smirk. “That’s part of my job, Savannah.”

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