Chapter 22
Anthony
The elevator glides up in silence. No rattling cables or unpleasant lurch, just a smooth ascent and a mirrored wall that forces me to watch the aftermath of my own choices.
April stands beside me like she’s bracing for impact.
Her eyes are raw from crying, her lashes are clumped, and her nose is pink.
She’s holding herself together the way people do right before they can’t anymore.
Her arms are wrapped tightly around her middle, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes fixed on a point that isn’t there.
She’s trying to look composed for me, and it makes something hot and ugly twist low in my chest. I key in.
The doors open into the penthouse and warm light spills out, the quiet swallowing us whole.
“Shoes off,” I tell her, not harsh, just automatic.
A small command to give her something to do that isn’t falling apart.
“Coat too.” She hesitates, blinking at me like she’s not sure I’m real.
I step in close to take her coat gently from her shoulders.
My fingers brush her collarbone and she flinches, not from fear, just from being touched when she’s raw.
I keep my hand there a beat longer than necessary, thumb steadying against her skin.
“Good,” I murmur, and guide her forward with light pressure at her back. “Come on. Sofa.”
She moves like she’s underwater. I shepherd her into the living room and sit her down.
I position her on the corner where she can curl up if she wants, then place a throw blanket over her lap like I’m closing a door against the cold.
She looks around the room at the glass and marble.
The city spreads beyond the windows like a lit circuit board.
She looks small against it, like she doesn’t belong here, even though she’s been here at least twenty times already.
She belongs wherever I decide she belongs.
The thought is possessive enough to make my jaw tighten.
I pick up the remote from the coffee table and press it into her hand.
“Here.” My voice stays even. “TV. Netflix. Whatever you want. Don’t argue.”
A tiny tremor runs through her fingers as she takes it. I grab the spare laptop from the credenza, set it beside her like an offering.
“If you feel like working, you can. If you don’t, don’t. Rest is an order for the rest of today.”
Her mouth opens, probably to protest, and I cut it off before it can form.
“April.” I say her name as steadily as I can. “You’re safe here. You can breathe here.”
Her throat bobs. She nods once, like she’s afraid that if she doesn’t comply, I’ll disappear. I crouch in front of her, lowering myself so we’re eye level. I don’t touch her immediately. I let her see my face, let her see I’m not irritated or punishing her for having feelings like a human being.
“You did the right thing calling me,” I say quietly.
Her lashes flutter. “I ruined your day.”
“No.” The word comes out like steel. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
Her eyes are glossy again, tears threatening to come back. She swallows hard. “Angela thinks you’re…” She stops, as if the sentence itself could blow up in her mouth.
“I don’t care what Angela thinks,” I say, and I mean it more than I should. “I care what you need.”
She looks down at the remote like it’s complicated machinery. I reach forward and cup the side of her face, thumb brushing the damp track on her cheek. Her skin is warm under my palm. She leans into it before she can stop herself, and the movement lands in me like a punch.
I let the silence hang for a second, then I say the part I don’t want to say. “I can’t stay.”
Her head jerks up, panic flashing. “What?”
“Urgent board meeting.” My voice stays calm because I don’t want to stress her out more. “It was called while I was in the car with you. They’re already gathering.”
She looks like she’s about to bolt, insist on leaving, apologize, and make herself smaller so I can be bigger. I press my thumb gently against her cheekbone, soft enough that it’s care, not command. “You’re staying here,” I tell her. “You’re taking the rest of the day off.”
“I have work.”
“You have a blood test confirming you’re pregnant, you had a fight with your sister, and a panic attack on the street. You’re carrying my child.” My gaze holds hers, unblinking. “You’re not going to the office.”
Her lips part. The argument forms and dies.
“Good,” I say, and there’s warmth in it, the praise that makes her shoulders drop a fraction. I stand, then pause, thinking through contingencies. Food. Hydration. Comfort. Distractions. Control is my language. Caretaking is just control with a gentler grip.
“If you want food, text me,” I tell her. “If you want tea, text me. If you need anything, you call. I’ll answer.”
“I don’t want to bother you.”
“You won’t.” Another blunt, definite statement. “If you’re hungry, I can have staff come by. They can make something and stock the fridge. They can disappear before you even notice they were here.”
Her face twists, conflicted. Pride. Embarrassment. Fear of owing someone.
I soften my voice. “No one will touch you. No one will talk to you. They’ll do what I say and leave. Understood?”
She nods, small and exhausted. I lean down and kiss her forehead.
It’s not sexual. It’s not transactional.
It’s a claim and a comfort, and it’s all I can do right now.
Her eyes close on instinct, and for a moment, she looks like she’s letting herself have it.
Like she’s letting herself believe I’m real. It guts me.
“I’ll be back,” I tell her.
“Anthony…”
I brush my thumb once more along her cheek. “Breathe. Watch something mindless. Take a nap. And stay right here.” I straighten, grab my phone, my jacket, my composure, and walk back out before I do something reckless like sit beside her and admit I don’t want to leave.
————
The boardroom air is clean and cold. Glass walls. Polished table. Faces arranged like chess pieces. My name sits at the head like a crown I’m expected to wear without flinching.
Karen is already there, legs crossed, posture immaculate, expression curated into concern. A few other board members, men who like to call themselves visionaries, watch me like I’m a headline. The meeting starts without preamble. That’s how they do it when they’re out for blood.
“The last collection didn’t meet financial objectives,” Peter says, voice clipped. “We’re behind projections.”
“We had supply chain issues,” I respond. “We adjusted.”
“It’s not just the numbers,” Lesley adds. “It’s noise. Public perception.”
Karen tilts her head, as sympathetic as a blade. “Anthony, we’re worried,” she says, like she’s a friend. “The press is circling. Investors are asking questions.”
My eyes narrow. “About what?”
She slides a printed photo across the table. It’s glossy, cropped, but it’s me, on a sidewalk, coat open, jaw tight, and April beside me, hair loose, face turned slightly away. Candid. The room watches my reaction like they’re studying a lab specimen. My hands stay still, but my pulse is racing.
“This is being framed as reckless,” Jean says. “A younger woman. Power imbalance. People are using words like predatory.”
Karen’s mouth tightens into a performance of discomfort. “Whether it’s fair or not, the optics are damaging. It undermines stability.”
“Stability,” I echo, flat.
Braun, near the middle, leans forward, knitting his fingers. “There’s also the trust clause,” he says. “We’ve been patient. But your personal conduct suggests you’re…not serious.”
The word makes my jaw lock.
Karen looks at the photo again, then back at me. “You have two choices,” she says softly, like she’s offering mercy. “Step down and let someone else lead without this distraction, or present the board with an ironclad family structure that satisfies the trust and reassures the public.”
A beat of silence. All those eyes. All that money.
All that entitlement. They want me on a leash.
They want me to be predictable. They want me to fold.
They think April is a liability. I see her on my sofa with a blanket over her knees, red-rimmed eyes trying not to beg me to stay, and something cold and surgical settles into place inside me.
An ironclad family structure. My mouth moves before I fully plan it, because my instincts have always been faster than their games.
“We’re getting married,” I say.
Every head snaps toward me and Karen’s smile freezes. One of the board members says, “Excuse me?”
I keep my expression steady, voice calm, as if this was always inevitable, as if I didn’t just light a match in a room full of gasoline.
“She’s pregnant,” I add, and let that land, heavy and undeniable. “There will be no scandal. No instability. No ambiguity. I will meet every requirement of the trust clause. I will secure this company’s future.”
Karen recovers first, eyes sharpening. “That’s… sudden.”
“It’s decisive,” I correct.
My heart doesn’t pound because of the board.
It pounds because I can already see the next problem forming like a storm on the horizon.
I haven’t asked April. I’ve just promised her to a room full of people who think they can own me, and now I have to go home, look her in the eye, and make the lie into something that holds.