Page 30 of The Billionaire & the Nanny: Vol. 3

Logan

T oday is a walking day.Some NYC days, you drive. Some, like today when it’s overcast and windy, you walk to work. The Financial District picks up all those humid breezes near the harbor, but there’s something else in the air besides the wind. While waiting to cross the street, people talk. Twisting my neck, I catch three older women gathered around a newspaper, shaking their heads .

“Can you believe it? At least she won’t have to deal with that deadbeat anymore,” one woman says. When they catch onto the fact that I’m glancing at them, they stop talking immediately and elbow each other .

I cross the street and turn right, waiting until the women cross and continue on before sliding around the next corner and leaning in to see the papers for sale. Miriam is on the front page, walking with Andy Kincaid, the actor, a mutual friend of ours, laughing with their arms touching, pinkies linked. Pinkies linked ?

The headline reads: Happiness for Miriam ?

Pfft.Like I fucking care. Good riddance .

Entering my building, I get into the elevator and don’t even bother to fake a smile at the people who greet me. I’m in no mood to talk. Between our deadline today, plus a presentation with investors, this has to go well or the next few months could be murder for me. They’re already bad enough now that Miriam plans to present what she calls “evidence” that I’ve been fucking the nanny to her lawyer, not that it matters, since New York is a no-fault state. Whatever it is, it won’t affect the divorce but it could have some impact on her wanting full custody .

The worst thing about my life right now is that Paisley’s gone. A week now. I understand why she left—I was threatening to fire her and she couldn’t continue to live this way—but we could’ve talked about it. I could’ve stayed calm, been less of an asshole. We could’ve figured out. Then again, I feel like fate is telling me this is how it was meant to be .

Anyway, I try not to think about it, but it’s damn near impossible. She’s the first thing I think about when I wake up. She’s the last thing I think about at night. Even now in my office, looking out at downtown, I see her in my mind’s eye. Her curves, her flowing hair, that smile, but best of all…those seafoam eyes .

My secretary buzzes me, but I don’t want to hear her voice. I want to pull out paper and sketch. Sketching is how I brainstorm, get the ideas out of my head and begin bringing them to life. It’s the first step to creation, but the most organic. I rely on computers so much, it’s stress-relieving to press pencil to paper every so often .

But people keep coming into my office and reminding me of the time. The time, the time, the fucking time. “Yes, I know what fucking time it is, Randolph. What the fuck do you want from me ?”

“Just reminding you about our meeting, sir .”

“And I’m just reminding you that this is my building, and I’ll show up to the meeting when I damn well feel like it. Have you ever seen me miss a meeting ?”

“No, sir .”

“Now you can leave my office .”

“Yes, sir.” I hear the door close quietly and a hubbub of voices outside, asking what went wrong. Randolph explains in hushed tones .

I continue to sketch a new building. I don’t know what it’s for but it’s curvy and it’s sexy and its glass reflects in a myriad of seafoam green tones. Someone has the balls to text me at this very moment, and that’s it—now I’m pissed. I throw the sketchbook into my drawer, grab my things for the meeting, and storm out .

The first thing I see is a group of people glancing at the same tabloid I saw on my walk here. I snatch it out of one of the secretaries’ hands, fold it, and shove it in the outer pocket of my bag. In a cubicle on just the other side, one of the guys whose worked in drafting for me for a year now is talking to Randolph who slowly backs up down the hallway and tries telling him I’m standing right here with widened eyes .

“Cleary, he needs to get laid,” the fucker says. “He’s been acting like a bitch for a week now.” He laughs, shaking his head. “Maybe his new building will be called The Cuckold Center .”

The idiot giggles even though the group around him has now fallen deadly silent .

“I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” I say in a calm, quiet tone .

Dude freezes and turns slowly like a cornered mouse. His skin goes ghostly pale and he seriously looks as though he might pass out. “Victor…uh…sir .”

“Victor, no wonder your name isn’t memorable. Victor, feel free to log off your computer and go home. I no longer need your services. I’ll see to it that you get your paycheck by the end of the week. Betty, please inform HR that we need a new drafter .”

“Yes, sir .”

“And we have a meeting to get to.” I breeze past her. “So move it .”

“Yes, sir,” Betty says, collecting her things while Victor stands there, mouth agape, wishing he could turn back time about ten seconds .

I almost feel sorry for the douche, but he was dumb enough to insult me and mock me in my own building a few feet from my office. If I let him get away with talking like that, I’d have lost the respect of everyone who works for me .

And right now, I need to show everyone that I am still firmly in charge. And it’s not about to change .

I don’t have time for people I can’t trust and now that basically means everyone .

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