Page 10 of A Baby For Her Billionaire BFF

“Back to work, Oliver,” I mutter to myself, reclaiming my seat at the helm of my empire. “You have dreams to chase.”

The click of my office door signals an interruption I’m not sure I need right now. Judging by the fact that there’s no knock, I think I already know who it is.

I swivel around in my chair, and Ben strolls in with that same easy grin he’s worn since our college days. He’s ditched the suit jacket, sleeves rolled up, the embodiment of work hard, play harder.

“Hey, Ollie.” His voice carries that perpetual hint of a party waiting to happen. “Tonight. Dinner. Me. You. Two models from the agency across the street. Interested?”

I lean back, threading my fingers behind my head as I eye him skeptically. “Models, you say? What, did you go over there and ask to look through headshots until you saw a couple you wanted to go out with?”

“Comp cards,” he corrects. “Actually, I don’t think they use those anymore. It’s all online now.”

I guffaw and roll my eyes. “Cool. So you went through a selection online.”

“No.” He grins. “I met them at the coffee shop this morning. They said they were headed into their agents’ office to take some new digitals or something. We got to chatting, and I told them about you. They practically started drooling when I mentioned your name.”

My lips tug into a half smile, though there’s no real pull from the offer. It’s just not my scene. “Tempting, but I’ve got plans.”

“Let me guess.” Ben perches on the edge of my desk. His gaze flickers over the neat stack of papers and the multiple screens with market graphs. “Another wild night with spreadsheets and quarterly projections?”

“Something like that.” I chuckle, dropping my hands and spinning the chair to face downtown Chicago once more. The skyline is a steel and glass forest where I’m both the hunter and the hunted. Despite all my success, I’m all too aware it could vanish in a moment. “Gotta stay ahead.”

“Man, you’re a stick in the mud.” Ben’s words are laced with playful chiding, but they carry the truth, a nudge toward the life I keep at arm’s length.

“Maybe so,” I admit. “But this mud has prime real estate value.”

He laughs, the sound rich and full. “Can’t argue with that.” He hesitates, leaning forward slightly. “Speaking of prime real estate, did you know today’s a kind of anniversary for us?”

“Anniversary?” I turn to him, one brow arched, interest piqued despite myself.

“Yep.” He pulls out his phone, taps on the screen a couple times, and shows me a post from one of our old college mates. “Eight years since we tossed those caps. Can you believe it?”

Shock takes the form of a cold jolt in my chest. Eight years? How did that happen?

“Wow, eight years…” I murmur, my voice trailing off as I stare at the picture of younger versions of us, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, beaming with the invincibility only youth provides.

“Brings back memories, huh?” Ben says, and he doesn’t have to explain which ones.

Memories, yes, but one in particular surfaces — a face framed by windswept hair, eyes that held stories and laughter. Nora. We were never more than friends, but there was a comfort in her presence, a warmth I haven’t felt in years.

And there was that night, the night we almost kissed.

“Remember Nora?” Ben asks, almost as if he can read the direction of my thoughts.

“Yeah,” I respond, quieter now. “I remember.”

Nora, with her effortless laugh that could light up the dimmest corners of any room. How had I let myself forget that sound?

Ben gives me a knowing look, a slight tilt of his head indicating he understands more than he lets on. But he shrugs off the moment, pushing away from my desk with ease.

“Well, if you change your mind about dinner, let me know.” He saunters out, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.

I’m left alone with the ghost of a memory, and it gnaws at me. Nora. We used to be close, not just physically in the cramped spaces of the campus library or in the front row of some dingy local gig, but in a way that felt like our ambitions and dreams were intertwined. She was an anchor, keeping me steady even as the tides of success pulled me further out to sea.

But as my company took off, my inbox became a battlefield, each email a grenade demanding my attention. Nora’s messages — once highlights of my day — became casualties in a war for time I couldn’t afford to lose. Her invitations to meet up for coffee when she came into town slowly trickled to a stop. And I hadn’t even noticed the silence until now.

I shake my head, trying to dispel the fog of regret settling in. It’s no use dwelling on the should-haves, especially when there are contracts waiting to be signed and properties begging to be acquired. But still, I find myself pulling up a browser, typing her name into the search bar as if it’s the key to unlocking the past.

The results are frustratingly sparse. A work profile abandoned years ago, a few scattered mentions on alumni newsletters. No social media selfies or rants. It’s like she’s chosen to live off the grid, or maybe she’s just living a life that doesn’t require the validation of likes and follows.

---