Page 8 of Baby Surprise for my Brother's Best Friend

I give her a smirk on instinct, but it’s more autopilot than charm now.

She blushes, and I walk past without a word.

Outside, the city blares on. Horns, sirens, the usual New York chaos.

More than ever, I don’t feel like the untouchable king of it all. I feel... exposed.

My phone buzzes. No caller ID. Just a single message.

It’s only a matter of time.

3

SOPHIE

“Anyone but him.”

The words pulse like a war drum in my chest.

I storm into boardroom A, heels slicing the silence with every step.

The floor-to-ceiling windows flood the room with light, but all I can focus on is the storm gathering inside me.

Alessio Marchetti.

Of all the disasters I could be facing this morning, it had to be him.

I haven’t seen him since that night, the one we both pretend never happened. And now? Now I’m expected to manage the fallout from his latest scandal?

How am I supposed to do that?

I stop at the far end of the boardroom, arms crossed so tight they might leave bruises. My pulse races so hard I can feel it in my ears.

Then he strolls in.

Late, of course. Smug, like always. And looking like every woman’s bad decision wrapped in a tailored navy suit and that infuriating smirk that used to make my knees weak. Now it just makes me want to hurl my laptop across the room, preferably right at his smug, perfect face.

He slides into the seat directly across from me like he owns the damn room, like we don’t have a history soaked in heat and regret.

God, why does he have to look better now?

His jaw is sharper. His shoulders broader, the tailored fabric of his suit jacket clinging to a body built for sin with his sculpted chest, tapered waist, and the kind of strength that speaks of both privilege and punishment.

Even the way he rolls his sleeves is a personal attack, slow, deliberate, revealing just enough forearm to send a jolt down my spine.

I hate that I notice. Hate that my body tightens like it remembers too much, too fast.

But no matter how much I try lying to myself, my traitorous body rememberseverythingabout that night. The way his hand slid up my thigh. The low growl in his throat. The way I forgot every reason I ever had to hate him.

I force my gaze away and fix it on the men seated at the table.

Valentino has his arms folded and jaw clenched.

Enzo Marchetti, the Marchetti patriarch, commands attention with his steely composure. His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back with precision, and his tailored charcoal suit does nothing to soften the cold authority in his eyes. He looks like the kind of man who built an empire with bare hands and zero tolerance for mistakes.

My father stands opposite of him, studying his notes like this is just another Thursday.

Then there's Denver, my brother, already looking like he wants to disappear under the table.

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