Page 2 of Baby for My Billionaire Rival

I wade through the people coming and going from class to class, catching sight of a brunette ponytail that looks awfully familiar. “Amy!” I call out.

The woman does a doubletake when she hears me call out. “Caroline!”

I rush down the hall and throw my arms around her. “I’m so happy to see you!”

“You too, honey! I’m so glad you were able to get a spot.”

I shouldn’t have been able to start this program until next school year, but a few strings pulled here and there thanks to my grandmother and Amy Trilby (yes, the same Trilby family for whom the building is named) and I was able to sneak into this year’s MBA class.

We link arms and head toward the lecture hall. “I’m so happy to see I’m not the only one cutting it close on time,” I say with a giggle.

“Oh, please,” Amy says with an eye roll. “If you think this class is going to start on time, you must believe that pigs fly.”

I roll my eyes. The Trilby MBA is one of the most prestigious in the country, attracting both those who want to start a business but also those for whom the business is a legacy. That means there are a lot of nepo babies (myself and Amy included) who will inherit companies and need to know what to do with them so they don’t run them into the ground.

For some people, money is an excuse to behave poorly, but for us Gladstones, we believe all our actions are being looked at through a microscope.

I come from a long line of manufacturers, which might not sound all that glamorous, but it is when your family has been building its business in the United States since the seventeenth century. Gladstone Manufacturing is a Fortune 500 company and I will one day, very soon, be the CEO. Of course, this all hinges on two factors. First, my grandmother, Gram as we fondly call her, needs to step down which requires me to shadow under her for at least a year. And second, I have to complete my MBA ASAP, which is why I’m here.

Amy and I find spots amidst the throng of our cohort members, gabbing away about life at home and catching up since the last time we saw each other was years ago at a gala in Chicago.

Turns out Amy was only half right. Our professor only waits two minutes past the hour before getting started. She’s a stern-looking woman in perfectly tailored slacks with circular, black-rimmed glasses, and a thick layer of mauve lipstick on her mouth.

I love her immediately.

“I’m Professor Jacinta Collins Figueroa,” the woman says, leaning up against the desk at the front of the room and crossing her arms over her chest. “I hold an MBA from Wharton and have twenty years of experience in the cosmetic industry. I was the chief executive officer of Tiger Lily for five years before I gave it all up for you heathens,” she says.

We give her a polite laugh in response.

“Oh, come on, that was funny,” she says before striding over to the lectern. “Anyway, I know two names can be complicated for catatonic MBA students working overtime, so you all can call me Fig.”

“Fig?” someone snorts from the first row.

She narrows her eyes at them. I don’t want to be caught dead in that stare. “Yes. Fig. Is that funny for some reason?”

“N-no,” the student swallows.

Fig smiles. “Good.”

“I like her,” I whisper to Amy.

“She freaks me out,” Amy whispers back.

I giggle.

“Now, I want to hear about you. Give us your name, where you’re from, and your logline as if you were a professor standing up in front of a class, asking a bunch of people to trust you with your business expertise.” Fig’s eyes flash and travel all the way to the top of the tiered seating. “Starting with you since you think it’s appropriate to arrive late to my class, Mr.…?”

I turn to look at the poor sap who is on the receiving end of Fig’s ire and am stunned when my eyes land on the handyman I met at the bathroom.

He hauls his sad-looking backpack over his shoulder and looks nervously around the room. “Simmons. Jake Simmons.”

I hear Amy gasp from beside me.

“My apologies for arriving late, Professor –”

“Fig, just Fig. Now, go right ahead, Mr. Simmons.”

The blood drains from my face. Jake Simmons isn’t the maintenance man. He’s a student here. Worse than that, he’s a member of my MBA program, which means we’re going to have to work together.

---