Page 25 of Secret Baby for the Bad Boy

When it’s finally time to go home, I feel like I’ve accomplished nothing and that makes me feel weak. This isn’t like me. Obsessing over her isn’t a good look, nor does it feel good.

Home is a welcome space and mom's voice cuts through the fog of my thoughts as she hands me a steaming mug. “You look like hell,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say, taking a sip of the coffee. I had no idea she’d be here today, but I’m glad she is. She’s had a spare key to my place since forever, and I wouldn’t dream of things being any other way. But it’s rare that she’ll drop by without a warning.

“Is it work? Or... her?” Mom’s eyes search my face as if she’ll find an answer.

“Both.” The word sends relief through me, as if just saying it out loud that she affects me helps me come to terms with and deal with everything that comes with that implication. “She’s been gone for days now. Shana won’t tell me anything, and no one else seems to know.”

I hate not knowing more than anything.

“Maybe she's sick,” Mom says, leaning against the counter.

“Then why wouldn’t she tell me?” I frown, staring down into the dark liquid with an urge to add something a little stronger. “Why would she shut me out?”

“Maybe she can't help it.” Mom's voice is soft.

“Can't or won't?” The distinction feels important, but my mom doesn’t have that answer, and neither do I.

“Enjoy your coffee,” she says, effectively ending the conversation before leaving the room. But the question remains, a splinter in my mind.

“Can't or won't?” I mutter into the cup, watching my breath make ripples on the surface of the coffee.

*

It’s been another two days, and she still hasn’t come back or contacted me.

I stand by the elevator, waiting to head up when I catch a familiar whiff of perfume. My heart thunders and I turn. Our eyes meet and she looks caught, guilty, maybe even afraid. But why?

The elevator dings and the doors slide open, revealing the empty space. She steps inside and I follow, aware of how her presence immediately fills the confined space. I hesitate for only a second before speaking; long enough for the doors to close behind me.

“Morning,” I say, my voice sounding more casual than I feel as I struggle to hold back the flood of words that want to come crashing out.

“Good morning,” she says so very softly, her eyes not meeting mine as she touches the button for our floor.

My heart races as I take a deep breath. “You've been out for a week.”

She stiffens, still avoiding my gaze. Her fingers stroke the strap of her handbag, and I’d swear she’s trembling. The black dress she’s wearing seems so harsh, and her hair is smoothed back into a slick bun that makes her features seem sharper. She looks… normal. Right down to her heels and touch of makeup that looks like she’s wearing none.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, concern bleeding through, despite my attempt at staying professional.

“Everything's fine,” she says, but there’s a curt edge to her voice, as if I don’t have the right to ask her questions.

We ride up in silence, but it's suffocating and there are so many words I want to say. As the floors tick by, I can't contain it anymore. My protective instincts, dormant yet powerful, surge within me, demanding action.

“Look, if something urgent came up, you should have told me.” My tone is firm, insistent.

Her head snaps up, surprise filling her beautiful features. “Why on earth would I inform you?” she asks, her voice sharp and cautionary.

“Because—” I stop myself. Do I even know why?

“I'm your boss, not your friend,” she says, her eyes now intent on mine. Her words are a cold reminder, a verbal shove back into my place. “You work for me. That's it.”

I can’t breathe around the lump of anger and frustration in my throat.

The elevator comes to a halt and dings. The doors slide open, and she steps out without another word, leaving me wondering how to get through the invisible barrier she's reinforced between us.

With my elbows on my desk and my fingertips pressing into my temples, I scan the digital spreadsheets. A notification pops up in the corner—her name in bold. I click, expecting a work-related memo, demands, or maybe another sharp-edged reminder of where I stand.

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