Chapter 002 Cillian
“Mr. Eve, development has requested a video conference in half an hour. I’ve forwarded you the link.”
“Goddamn it, Edith. I told you I wasn’t going to take any more meetings today.” I look up from my computer screen to find my secretary watching me with an expression that hovers somewhere between boredom and pity.
“Yet I seem to remember a certain CEO telling me to ‘get the entire fucking development team on a call before I shove my fist up Watson’s ass and use him as a puppet.’”
Edith’s impression of me is spot on—too accurate, really—but I’m not about to tell her that. It will only encourage her. She’s been with me since I took over at Secure, a software company specializing in data protection that eats up ninety percent of my waking life. She was here when the company was founded, and she’ll likely be here long after I retire or die of a stress-induced stroke.
Edith is my right hand, but I’m not entirely convinced she’s not a vampire. Nothing about her has changed since I got a part-time job here in high school as an intern. Almost twenty years later, and she still doesn’t have a single salt-and-pepper hair out of place. Her skin is unlined, her posture rigid, and her ability to tolerate me is supernatural.
“Fine,” I snap, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “But after that, clear my schedule. The new nanny is coming today, and Elara asked me to be there when she arrives.”
“Maybe I should ask your niece for tips on bossing you around.” Edith stares down at me, unblinking.
I roll my eyes. “Like you need any help. Besides, I’m not sure I need another woman in my life reminding me how I’ve failed them.”
“Come on, Cillian,” Edith says as she rounds the massive oak desk. It’s not often she calls me by my first name, though I’ve told her to do it countless times. “With help on the way, things are bound to get better.”
She places a hand on my shoulder, giving it a small, firm squeeze before letting go. Her touch is rare, reserved for moments when I look like I’m about to shatter the glass walls of my office.
“It’s not like they can get any worse,” she adds.
A month ago, I would have agreed with her. I would have made a joke about stock prices or server crashes. But after the phone call I got in the middle of the night—the kind that slices your life into before and after—everything changed. Now I know exactly how much worse things can be, and I’m not trying to tempt fate.
“It’s fine,” I say, brushing off the frustration and exhaustion settling in my bones like lead. “Will you do me a favor and—”
“Go check on Elara? I already did before I came in here, but I’ll go by and check again,” Edith says, grabbing my empty coffee mug and the leftover lunch container off my desk. “She’s set up in the conference room today.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, running a hand through my hair. It’s getting long. I need a cut. I need sleep. I need a stiff drink.
“Anything else?” she asks from the doorway.
“No, that’s all for now.”
I turn back to my computer screen, the blue light harsh against my tired eyes, and try to focus on the quarterly projections.
“Mr. Eve?” Edith says.
I look up.
“Try not to be so hard on yourself,” she says softly. “Most people don’t get a ten-year-old out of nowhere, but Elara is a special child. You’ll both be fine.”
I nod, waiting for the door to click shut before I let the mask slip. I don’t know if she’s right. In fact, I’m fairly certain she’s wrong. How can a child be fine if she’s stuck with me as a guardian? Me, the person who avoided children like they were radioactive. I never even put my cock inside a woman without three forms of contraception because I didn’t want to risk it.
The universe has a sick sense of humor.
Thankfully, what I lack in emotional support, I make up for in wealth. I might not be able to be the father figure Elara needs—I don’t even know what that looks like—but I can certainly pay someone to be that person for her.
My shoulders sag as I remember the look of disappointment on Elara’s face the first time she saw me. My brother and I could have been twins physically, but our personalities couldn’t have been more different. She took one look at me and knew I was nothing like him, despite the resemblance. She saw the suit, the scowl, the sterility of my life, and she knew she was in the wrong place.
Marshall and I were placed in foster care together after our mom died from a drug overdose. I was five. Marshall was four. We were able to stay in the same home for a few months, clutching each other in the dark, but then the system did what the system does. We were separated and bounced around the state like loose change. Most of my childhood is a blur of unfamiliar ceilings and the smell of other people's cooking. Looking back, I think I blocked a lot of it out to protect myself. Survival required forgetting.
By the time I was in high school and working part-time, I had enough money to take the bus to where Marshall was living a few hours away. I’d try to visit him once a month, but it was hard getting out there. The distance wasn’t just physical. By then, we were strangers sharing a bloodline. I didn’t try very hard to bridge the gap. I was too busy trying to build a fortress of money around myself so I’d never be vulnerable again.
When I went to college, Marshall joined the military. The last time I saw him was eleven years ago. He had just enlisted and told me he wanted to have dinner together before he shipped out for basic training.
I went, but I wasn’t really there. My phone kept vibrating on the table, buzzing with emails about a new contract that I was sure was going to help me gain recognition at Secure. I spent the entire meal checking notifications, nodding absently while he talked about his plans. Looking back, I can see now that my brother was trying to connect with me one last time. He was reaching out, and I blew it. I chose a contract over my brother.
After basic training, Marshall was deployed overseas, and I never saw him again. We would talk maybe once a year around the holidays to check in, stiff conversations filled with pauses, but nothing more.
It wasn’t until the night I got the call that Marshall had been killed in a car accident that I found out my brother had a ten-year-old daughter. He never mentioned Elara in any of our phone conversations. Not once. I still don’t know why. Was he ashamed of me? Did he think I wouldn’t care? Or did he just want to keep the one good thing in his life away from the mess of our family history?
Marshall’s commanding officer informed me that Elara’s mother died during childbirth, and I was the only next of kin. He said that I needed to come pick up Elara or she would be transferred to the state foster care system.
The words hit me like a physical blow. Foster care.
Having been through the system myself, I knew how bad it could be. Especially for girls. The statistics are a nightmare I lived on the periphery of for years. As much as I never wanted kids, as much as I value my silence and my order, I knew I had the means to care for a child. Certainly not emotionally—I’m a wasteland in that department—but financially? I could give her the life my brother would have wanted for her. Schools, clothes, safety. I could buy her safety.
It’s been a whirlwind since finding all of this out. I haven’t had time to process losing the brother I didn’t know or gaining a child I didn’t want. Hiring a live-in nanny is the first thing on my list because I have deadlines with work I can’t miss. There are several projects happening right now, critical path items, and I need to be hands-on until they are finished. Once they are complete, then maybe I can unpack what happened with Marshall.
Until then, there’s no time for emotions. Emotions are inefficient. They cause errors.
The sharp ping of my computer alerts me to the incoming conference call. I let out a heavy sigh, adjusting my tie, and click to join.
Watson’s face fills the screen, pixelated and eager. He starts talking about the development strategy immediately, his voice grating against my headache. While he drones on about user acquisition costs, a pop-up message from Edith appears in the corner of my screen.
Edith: Elara is in the conference room watching some kind of baking show.
Me: Thanks for checking on her.
I try to pay attention to Watson, really I do, but another message pops up a moment later.
Edith: Jones from valet called. He said the au pair arrived in some kind of junk vehicle with her possessions in trash bags.
I stare at the words. Trash bags.
“Goddamn it,” I say aloud.
Watson stops talking mid-sentence. The silence on the call is instantaneous.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Eve?” he asks. I look at the video grid to see everyone watching me—twelve tiny faces in twelve tiny boxes, all looking terrified.
“Yes,” I say, my voice cold. “The proposal is for fifty percent less coverage than the client asked for. The next time you come unprepared to a meeting, I’m going to start charging you for my time.”
Watson opens his mouth to stammer an excuse, but I’m done. My patience has evaporated.
“Do it again, only this time upload the development schematics with what the client has actually requested.”
I kick everyone out of the video call before ending the session. The screen goes black, reflecting my own irritated expression back at me.
Now that I’ve dealt with one incompetent employee, I guess I’ll go deal with another. What kind of professional nanny shows up to a high-end residential building with trash bags? It screams instability. It screams chaos. And chaos is the one thing I cannot tolerate in my home.
I stand up and button my suit jacket. Maybe I can fire her before Jones has a chance to unload her luggage.