Page 20 of Baby For My Ex's Brother

"Good to see you, Mr. Nolan!" one calls out, her voice laced with an admiration that makes my stomach twist.

"Always a pleasure, Liam," another adds, her handshake with my boss lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

They flock to him, drawn by some invisible force that seems to radiate from his very being. I wonder if he’s slept with any of them… and then I chastise myself for wondering because it’s really none of my business.

I just want to fade into the background—a blip on the radar compared to this bossy, arrogant god.

I draw a quiet breath, trying to steady the fluttering in my chest. This feeling of invisibility isn't new—it's been a constant companion since I started dating Chris… since I lost myself in the glare of his brilliance. But today, with the weight of what awaits us in the conference room, it settles over me heavier than before.

"Shiloh? You coming?" Liam's voice slices through the hum of conversations, a beacon pulling me back from the edge of self-pity. There's no hint of the celebrity in his tone when he speaks to me—just impatience laced with something that sounds an awful lot like concern.

"Right behind you," I reply, my voice steady despite the tremor in my knees. Because no matter how small they make me feel, I won't let him see me falter.

Not here. Not now. Not ever.

I remind myself that I'm here for a reason, clutching the leather portfolio to my chest like a shield as I shuffle after Liam. His strides are sure and long, his presence commanding even the air in this place to bend to his will. It's infuriating how much space he takes up—how much space everyone allows him to take.

"Mr. Nolan, right this way," an assistant says, her voice syrup-sweet, eyes fluttering at him with thinly veiled admiration.

"Thank you, Marissa," Liam nods curtly without breaking his stride, and I follow his lead, trying not to get lost in the sea of cubicles and glass doors that make up the labyrinth of Aegis's Atlanta office.

We reach an office at the back, away from the prying eyes and hushed whispers of the main workspace. Liam doesn't knock, just pushes the door open with a confidence that speaks of ownership. I hesitate on the threshold, then step into the shadow he casts, entering the room.

My gaze immediately locks on the man rising from the conference table. He's tall, with the kind of effortless attractiveness that has nothing to do with the cut of his suit or the care in his grooming—it's innate, a part of him as much as his sharp jawline or the rich chestnut of his hair.

"Turner," Liam greets, a grin spreading across his face as they shake hands.

There's a camaraderie there that grates against my nerves, a brotherhood forged in secrets and closed-door deals. Yeah, this guy is good-looking, but I get the impression he’s not here because he’s adept at doing the right thing, and it sets alarm bells ringing in my head.

"Derek Turner," he introduces himself.

"Shiloh Sanders." My voice is a whisper of sound, barely enough to carry my name across the short distance between us. But it's enough to earn me a nod, an acknowledgment that I exist in this world of giants.

"Good to meet you, Shiloh," he says, and there's a warmth there that almost makes me believe he means it.

Almost.

I nod, the professional mask firmly in place, even as my insides churn with apprehension. Before I can settle into myobservations further, a paralegal steps forward. She's got an efficiency about her that's as sharp as the stilettos she wears, and there's no mistaking the purpose in her stride.

"Miss Sanders," she says, handing me a sleek tablet, "we need you to sign this NDA before we proceed."

The screen glows with legalese, its contents spelling out the silence money can buy. My fingers hover over the digital line at the bottom. This is the part where I seal my lips and agree to keep their secrets—the infidelities and moral gray areas tucked away neatly behind my signed name.

I tap the stylus against the screen, scrawling Shiloh Sanders in a script that feels too delicate for what it represents. A shackle, a gag order—but it's part of the job.

"Thank you." The paralegal retrieves the tablet with a curt nod, her eyes flicking back to the recording device she's set up on the table. It blinks red, a tiny cyclops witnessing everything.

"Let's get started," Liam commands, a note of impatience already threading through his tone as he settles into the chair at the head of the table. His eyes are on me, expectant.

I reach into my leather satchel, fingers brushing against the crisp edges of meticulously organized file folders. I draw out the thick file marked 'Turner' and place it in front of him with practiced care. My role is clear: assist, facilitate, and, most importantly, do not engage.

"Here you go," I say, keeping my voice steady despite the fluttering in my chest that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with him.

Liam flips open the cover with a flick of his wrist and begins rifling through the documents. He’s all business now, every inch the hotshot attorney taking command of the narrative before him. But even the most controlled can be tripped up by their own expectations.

"Where's the correspondence from the Hawks' legal team? You can't have missed that, Shiloh," he snaps without looking up, the accusation clear in his voice.

I bristle at the implication, feeling a familiar surge of indignation heat my cheeks.

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