Page 52 of Babies for the Big Shot
I nod once.
Her breath catches. She looks away. But the flush in her neck gives her away. For one second, this stops being calculated. It’s just us.
“Tonight,” I say, “you’re mine.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth. “And tomorrow?”
“We go back to pretending.”
She doesn’t argue. She just nods. There’s acceptance in it. Not surrender, just realism.
“Then let’s make tonight count,” she says.
For the next hour, I do what’s expected. Shake hands. Trade market predictions with men who treat crisis as opportunity. Smile when prompted. Exchange updates with former associates who pretend to miss the grind but don’t. They talk about wealth the way athletes talk about old injuries, still proud of what it cost them.
I do my part. But my attention doesn’t settle.
It stays fixed on her.
Her laugh reaches me from twenty feet away, but I feel it before I register the sound. She’s standing with a group of wives now, older, composed, surgically preserved, and they’re listening. Actually listening. And laughing. Real laughter, not the brittle kind these nights are known for.
She’s magnetic.
And I’m proud of her in a way that catches me off guard. It’s not professional. It’s personal. It’s dangerous.
Because she’s unforgettable in this light. Because they’ll remember her now.
And because if this night turns, if someone connects the dots, if even one person decides she doesn’t fit the narrative, they won’t come for me.
They’ll come for her.
I watch the room differently after that. I read the glances, gauge the curiosity, and listen for tone shifts. Look for the one person who thinks they’ve uncovered something.
Nothing yet.
Still, I keep track.
She excuses herself to the restroom. No announcement. Just a touch at my arm, a small glance, and then a kiss pressed tomy jaw. Quick. Precise. No one else sees it, but it lands with full force.
I watch her walk away.
Green silk moves around her legs with a confidence that’s not learned, it’s built in, and for a moment, I let myself feel it. Not ownership. Not possession.
Just the fact of her.
Here. With me.
And what it’s costing me not to reach for more.
I’m still steadying from the warmth she left behind when I hear the voice. “I see the rumors were true. Nick Ashford in the flesh.”
It’s immediate. Recognition without emotion. I turn.
Rebecca.
Immaculately styled. A designer gown that announces intent. Hair calculated. Expression cool and performative. Her presence, as always, demands attention without asking for it.
“I didn’t think you did these anymore,” she says.
