Page 231 of Plaything

“She’s here for the same meeting I am,” Vincent smiled at her.

“Is everyone else here?” I asked.

She confidently nodded once. “Yes, ma’am, Vincent was the last to arrive,” she glanced down at the checklist of names on her iPad.

“I didn’t feel like sitting in a conference room breathing the same air as those fuckers,” Vincent smiled sarcastically despite the bite in his tone. He lifted his brows at my guys behind me and chuckled. “Brought the big guns, I see. Smart move, Kid.”

“We’re just here for moral support,” Wyatt assured.

“That’s too bad. I was hoping Dom would hit at least one of them—”

“Violence isn’t condoned in the office... Vincent,” the woman cocked her eyebrow at him disapprovingly.

I like her. I looked at her nameplate, which read Vanessa Hastings. “That was a joke,” I rushed out with my hands up. “No one’s getting hit,” I promised.

Vanessa grabbed a folder off her desk and held it out to me. “Rita sent these over to have printed in preparation for the meeting. I’m assuming they’re yours?” She asked.

They were the termination of partnership documents for each man waiting for me in the conference room. “Yes, thank you,” I took the folder, feeling another wave of anxiety wash over me.

“I can take you back now,” Vanessa gestured to one of the big glass doors as she led the way. “I know you’re here for other reasons, but I have to tell my boss and Mister Smith that you’re here. I’m sure they’ll want to meet with you,” she explained as I walked alongside her, the guys behind us. “How much time do you have after your meeting? I’ll make sure we won’t keep you long,” she guaranteed.

She sounded slightly worried that she was inconveniencing me. More than that, I had a sneaking suspicion she would get reprimanded if she didn’t mention I was here to her boss. “No worries; I have lots of time. Sorry it wasn’t clear that I’d be here today; I think Rita’s assistant forgot to put my name on the guest list,” I said with a comforting smile.

Vanessa’s shoulders dropped slightly as she took a breath. “Don’t apologize, Miss Whitlock. You definitely don’t need to let us know when you’re visiting,” she said. She glanced around the busy room of eyes that followed us before lowering her tone. “Between you and me... the boss likes to have a heads-up to ensure everything is ship-shape,” she added.

Surveying the room, I saw nothing but employees buried in their work. None had decorations, photos, or even plants at their desks. No one was casually chatting with their coworkers; the only voices were the mumbled ramblings of phone conversations. “Is this not ship-shape?” I asked. They all even had the same black ballpoint pen. There was no color in the room.

Vanessa shrugged in response, clearly not wanting to say too much for fear of retaliation.

As we walked past the dozens of cubicles, I continued to let my eyes wander the depressing office. A woman with heavy bags under her eyes and a baby in her arms caught my attention. She was typing with one hand and cradling with her other arm, silently rocking back and forth as the baby slept.

It wasn’t uncommon in today’s day and age to bring your kid to work when needed. But this baby was small. Like freshly out of the oven small, and the woman looked exhausted.

“Hi,” I whispered to her, stopping at her desk and halting our group. I didn’t know what impulse took over me, but I knew with every fiber of my being that something wasn’t right. “Your son is cute,” I smiled. “How old is he?” I pried gently.

The woman’s eyes rounded momentarily at the sight of me before she answered. “He’ll be four weeks on Friday,” she replied quietly.

What were either of them doing here? I nodded once before turning to Vanessa. “How long is paid maternity leave?” I asked hushedly, trying not to draw attention to ourselves or the mother.

Vanessa pressed her lips together. “The state protects your job security for ten weeks. The company allows three weeks of PFMLA,” she answered.

I looked over my other shoulder to Wyatt, who knew at least a little more than me, given his dozens of nieces and nephews. “Wyatt,” I whispered. “I don’t know a lot about babies. Is that normal?”

He shook his head. “The university offers 12 weeks of PFMLA for paternity and 14 weeks for maternity,” he advised.

Yeah... fuck this.

I crouched next to the woman’s desk and smiled. “Go home.”

Her words caught in her throat. “I-I can’t. I can’t afford to—”

“You’ll be paid. I’ll have HR send you updated benefits information by the end of the week,” I explained.

A thick silence fell over her as her eyes wandered my face. She blinked a few times, her eyes glossed before she nodded. “Thank you,” her voice shook with gratitude. “I’ll have to tell my boss—”

“I’ll talk to your boss,” I smiled. “You just go home,” I chuckled. The only thing she should be concerned with is taking care of herself and her three-week-old infant.

“I’ll send him in with the others after your meeting,” Vanessa cut in, taking notes on her iPad.

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