Page 165 of Babies for the Big Shot
“I can, and I just did,” he says. “You don’t get to take a bribe and go back on it. Not on my watch.”
I don’t need to say anything else. Greg’s made the decision for me. I turn to Jonah, who’s standing by the door, watching with an expression that’s half relieved, half disappointed.
We leave Isla’s office without another word as I hear my banking app chime with the money being paid right back to me.
The driver says something as I get out of the car, but I don’t register it. The words disappear behind the low hum in my ears, the static of a day I’ve already lost control of.
The building security nods as I pass. I don’t respond.
Every step toward the penthouse feels heavier than the last. Not because of what Isla said, but because of what I didn’t do. What I should’ve seen coming.
The article. Sara.
I’m a piece of shit for thinking I could just throw money at the issue and it’d all just vanish.
I’m an idiot.
My hand rests on the door for a moment longer than necessary before I open it.
She’s standing in the middle of the living room, barefoot. The same hoodie she wore this morning is hanging off one shoulder, and her arms are crossed, tight, defensive, as if she’s holding herself together with the last thread of restraint she has left.
Meatball lifts his head from the couch but doesn’t move. Even he knows not to interrupt whatever this is about to become.
She doesn’t say anything right away. Just stares at me.
The silence stretches.
“Sara,” I say, stepping inside, but the sound of her name from my own mouth feels foreign.
“You knew it was coming,” she says flatly. Her voice is calm, but it’s the calm just before a storm hits. “Didn’t you?”
I stop, three paces in. “I had reason to believe she was working on something, yes.”
Her eyes narrow. “And you didn’t think to mention that to me?”
“I was trying to get ahead of it. I met with her and tried to end it?—”
She lets out a sharp, incredulous laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You tried toend it?”
“And I went to the magazine headquarters this afternoon to confront her…”
“You confronted her? After it went live? That’s not getting ahead of anything, Nick. That’s damage control.”
“I thought I’d handled it,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I didn’t want to worry you…”
“Too late.”
The words slice clean through me.
She walks toward the kitchen island, too restless to stand still. Her fingers wrap around the edge of the marble as if it’s the only solid thing left in her world.
“I didn’t know until Laura called me,” she sighs heavily. “Now I have twenty-two missed calls, and I’ve been harassed by a goddamn stranger who somehow got my personal number to ask me if I’d sold my story toPeopleor if they could buy it first.”
I shut my eyes for a beat. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t,” she snaps. “Don’t say that like it fixes anything.”
I open my mouth. Close it again. She’s right.
