Page 13 of A Baby For Her Billionaire BFF

The thought of my parents’ reaction tightens the knot already forming in my stomach.

I’ve always been their success story, the daughter who went off to college and then law school, landing a prestigious job at a top firm. Now what am I? Unemployed. An idealist without a cause.

As I reach my car, the truth of what I’ve lost hits harder than any cross-examination ever could. With shaky hands, I fumble with the keys before the lock clicks open. The box lands on the passenger seat with a thud, and I slide behind the wheel.

My phone buzzes in my pocket — a text, probably from Mom or Dad, checking in, unaware their daughter’s life has just capsized. I can’t look at it right now. Not yet. Instead, I bury my face in my hands, the dam breaking as sobs rack my body.

“Why is doing what’s right so hard?” I choke out between tears. They’re not just for the loss of my job but also for the family I was trying to help and for the dreams I had when I first walked into that firm. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was going to make a difference, fight the good fight.

I let the tears fall, unbridled, mourning the death of eight years spent chasing a dream that turned out to be just another illusion.

How do I tell my parents that their golden girl is tarnished? How do I explain that I chose integrity over security and still ended up feeling like I lost?

The city moves on outside my window, indifferent to one lawyer’s crisis. I take a deep, shuddering breath and wipe away the tears. It’s just me, my car, and an uncertain horizon.

“Okay, Nora,” I say aloud, trying to ground myself in the sound of my own voice. “What’s next?”

If only I had a clue.

CHAPTER 7

OLIVER

The pre-dawn silence of my penthouse weighs heavy as I pry open my eyes, the digital numbers on the clock blaring the ungodly hour. Five a.m. never gets easier, but ambition doesn’t hit snooze. I swing my legs out of bed, muscles protesting the short night’s rest, and within minutes, I’m pounding away on the treadmill.

My body moves mechanically, the rhythmic thud of my feet against the belt a familiar cadence. It’s too early for most things, but not for the ghosts of what-ifs that like to dance in the corners of my mind. To keep them at bay, I flick on the TV mounted on the wall, the screen springing to life with the vibrant colors of a movie already in progress.

A family laughs around a dinner table, their faces glowing with a warmth that looks even ridiculous for fiction. The mother passes a dish to her smiling husband while the kids compete for their attention. It’s a picture-perfect scene, one that gnaws at something deep inside me. My jaw clenches.

Reaching for the remote, I hit the off button. The screen goes black, the false sense of familial bliss snuffed out in an instant. I can’t stomach it — not now, not ever. That world isn’t mine; it’s a stark reminder of the cold, empty spaces of my own upbringing.

With a final surge of energy, I push through the last leg of my run, allowing the frustration to fuel me. It’s better than letting it consume me.

When the treadmill winds down, I hop off, chest heaving, and make my way to the sanctuary of the shower. Hot water pelts my skin, steam enveloping me. It’s here, in the isolation of my high-rise castle, that my defenses waver, where thoughts of Nora creep in like tendrils of mist.

Nora — the unexpected variable in my well-calculated life. I haven’t looked her up since that first time days ago, yet she’s there, in the periphery of my thoughts, persistent. She’s probably still asleep, unaware she’s haunting someone’s shower musings. Would she laugh if she knew? Or would that soft look of concern cross her face — the one I remember all too well from college?

I shake my head, trying to dispel her image along with the water droplets. There’s no room for distractions.

And why should I be thinking of her? Today is just another day. Another step on the ladder. Nothing has changed.

The soft clack of my fingers on the keyboard is a comforting rhythm, a song I can always count on. I’m in the zone, emails dispatched with military precision, contracts reviewed with an eagle’s eye.

I pride myself on efficiency, on being able to compartmentalize — work is work, personal is… well, it’s something I don’t delve into during business hours.

By ten thirty, my head aches in protest, a reminder that I’ve been running on nothing but willpower and ambition since before sunrise. The espresso machine in my office is state-of-the-art — a gleaming monument to caffeine and my savior on many late nights. But today, I crave change, a deviation from my self-imposed seclusion.

I rise, rolling my shoulders back to relieve the tension there, and make my way to the staff break room. There’s a comfort in the mundane, the normalcy that resides in such shared spaces. It’s a chance to breathe, away from the expectations that come with sitting behind the mahogany desk in my corner office.

Pushing open the door to the break room, I’m greeted by a riot of color that jars me from my work-induced trance. “Congratulations” banners drape across the walls, each letter a cheerful assault on the minimalist aesthetic I prefer. I pause, a frown tugging at my lips, not out of dislike for the display but from the surprise of forgetting its purpose.

“Oliver, we’re having cake later,” chirps Janet from accounting, her smile as warm as the coffee I came here for.

She’s holding a plate piled high with pastries, the kind that Melanie, one of our top lawyers, adores.

Melanie. Of course. The banners are for her.

How could I have forgotten?

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