Page 122 of Babies for the Big Shot
We stay like that, wrapped around each other, as Meatball stands sentry at the window. And I realize that I’m not just fighting for control of my company or my name anymore.
I’m fighting for my family.
And I’m not losing this one. Not a chance in hell.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sara
The silencein Nick’s car is deafening.
Not angry silence. Not awkward, exactly. Just… loaded. Every inch of space between us is thick with everything we haven’t said and everything we’re terrified to feel.
Meatball sits between us in the back seat, a furry, drooling buffer zone. His tongue lolls happily. He’s completely oblivious to the fact that his mom is minutes away from emotional collapse and his chauffeur might actually be a billionaire with a protective streak the size of Manhattan.
I keep my eyes on the window, watching the city blur past, bright and loud and alive in that way New York always is at night. It should make me feel small. It usually does. But not right now.
Even if I don’t know what we are, even if I still don’t know how this ends, I’m not walking this road solo anymore. Nick’s here. And that matters more than I want to admit.
“Seat warmers still work,” he mutters, adjusting a knob on the console.
I glance down, realizing the leather beneath me is heating slowly. My feet have been cold since the appointment and I didn’t even notice until now.
“Thanks,” I say softly.
He nods, eyes still on the road.
We’re not exactly chatty.
He keeps glancing over every few blocks, needing to see that I’m still here, that I haven’t disappeared. I do the same, checking, watching, afraid that if I stop, he’ll be gone.
Meatball sneezes dramatically and flops over, wedging his head in my lap with a grunt.
I run my fingers through his ears, feeling the first hint of calm filter through me. It’s thin. Brittle. But it’s there.
Twenty minutes later, we pull into a gated drive tucked between rows of brownstones and mid-century luxury. I blink at the security pad, at the way the gates open smoothly on their own. And then we’re turning down a narrow, perfectly manicured lane and…
Oh.
Oh, wow.
I don’t know what I expected, but this… this is not it.
Nick’s place isn’t just a building, it’s a statement. Rising with quiet arrogance, lit from below to cast sharp, commanding shadows. Valets shift positions with practiced precision. Inside, the marble lobby gleams, cool and echoing. A chandelier of glass teardrops hangs above, catching the light in fractured bursts that scatter across the walls.
A doorman greets him by name. I’m still clutching Meatball’s leash as if it’s going to protect me from being wildly out of my depth.
We take a private elevator straight to the top.
I should say something, I know I should, but I don’t know what.Thank you? I’m sorry? I hope your board doesn’t crucify you for this?
The elevator doors open with a soft chime. And then we step into his world.
It’s… breathtaking.
Two stories of floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the main living area, framing a skyline so perfect it doesn’t look real. Everything is soft lighting, muted grays and golds, warm wood and brushed steel.
Clean. Luxurious. Huge.
