Page 11 of A Baby For Her Billionaire BFF

“Nora,” I mutter under my breath, staring at the screen that refuses to divulge her secrets. “Where did you go?”

The clock on my wall ticks loudly, a reminder that time is a resource I can’t afford to squander. Yet here I am, searching for a woman who seems to have vanished into thin air.

I push back from my desk, stand up, and take a deep breath.

“Got to focus, Oliver,” I tell myself.

And there’s that old, familiar longing. A desire to abandon tonight’s plans for weights and spreadsheets and instead pick up yearbooks and get lost in memories of the girl who dreamed as big as I did.

Shaking my head, I close my eyes. What am I thinking? Nora was a distraction back then, and if I did find her today, she would still be a distraction. Her pull on my heart has always been too strong.

Which means things are fine the way they are. Perfect, really. Nora and I grew apart, and that’s the way it should be.

I belong on my own. A king on his throne with no one to distract him from the next conquest.

CHAPTER 6

NORA

Ishuffle the papers in my hands, each sheet a stark testament to the lives upended by something as essential as water. The family I’ve just interviewed sits huddled on their worn sofa, hope flickering in their eyes like the dim light of the lamp in the corner of their living room.

“Thank you, Ms. Ryder,” the mother says, her voice laced with gratitude and fatigue. “We didn’t think anyone would listen.”

“Call me Nora,” I insist, offering what I hope is a reassuring smile. “And I assure you, we’re going to fight for you every step of the way.”

I exit through the door they hold open for me, stepping out into the brisk Chicago air. My breath forms little clouds that dissipate quickly, much like the doubts that occasionally cloud my mind about whether I’m truly making a difference. But not today. Today, I feel like I’m exactly where I need to be.

As I stride down the street, my phone vibrates in my coat pocket. Who could that be?

Fishing it out, I see a text from my boss flashing on the screen. Come to my office when you get back.

A twinge of anxiety knots my stomach. It’s probably nothing, just a debrief on today’s interview or a new case. Still, one can never be too sure. The firm has been unpredictable lately, especially with rumors of budget cuts and restructuring swirling around.

“Okay, keep it together,” I whisper to myself, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

The firm is a ladder to my dreams, one I’ve been steadily climbing since law school. And this case, it matters. It’s not just another rung on that ladder; it’s a chance to do some real good.

In Seattle, the firm I worked at only cared about money, so I eventually returned to Chicago — the place that started it all. And in Chicago I joined an environmental law firm, a beacon of hope amid the inkling black night. At first I thought that I was in my dream job.

Then it turned out to be the same deal all over again. It’s all about money, money, money.

But not this time. Not this case. My boss has finally allowed me to take on a sliding scale case. I’m finally defending people who really need it, who wouldn’t be able to pay for a lawyer otherwise.

Reaching the block where my workplace is, I park on the street and hustle out of the car.

With a deep breath, I quicken my pace, the heels of my shoes clicking against the sidewalk in a steady rhythm. As I near the imposing glass building that houses the firm, my anxiety increases. Things are going so well at work that I feel like something is bound to go wrong soon.

I march through the maze of hallways, my heart hammering in my chest. The door to Mr. Hale’s office looms ahead — bigger and more foreboding than I remember it ever being.

With a determined push, the door swings open, and there he is, framed by the Chicago skyline, Mr. Robert Hale, with his back turned to me, hands clasped behind his back.

“Ah, Nora.” He turns, his voice smooth as a well-aged scotch, but it’s the ice in his eyes that sends shivers down my spine. “Please, have a seat.”

I don’t sit. The news can’t be good, not with that look on his face — the one that reads “bottom line” in bold, unforgiving letters.

“Mr. Hale, what’s this about?” My words are steady, but inside, it’s like I’m clinging to the edge of a cliff with cracked fingernails.

He sighs, a contrived expression of regret painting his features. “We need to discuss the Freeman case.”

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