Thirteen #2
She glances around. The room’s already returning to normal.
“She’s adorable,” the server adds. “She’s not that loud.”
I press the bill into her hand. “Thanks for being cool.”
I swing the diaper bag over my shoulder and head for the door, Amelia cradled against my chest.
Then the flashbulbs hit.
“Mr. Marino, is that your daughter, Amelia?” someone calls.
My blood goes cold.
“How do they know her name?”
“Are you the father of Willow Jackson’s daughter?”
Before I can speak, Willow slips out beside me and loops her arm through mine, posing like this is a press call, not a disaster. Duck face. Perfect lighting. No shame.
My fury spikes.
The car service pulls up. I yank open the door and all but push Willow inside.
Once the door shuts behind us, I snap, “Who did you call? Who’d you tip off?”
Willow adjusts her dress, unbothered. “I just told my friends where we were eating. We’re gonna meet up after.”
I stare at her, disbelieving. “You thought it wouldn’t get out? You put Amelia in front of cameras without asking me?”
She shrugs. “Relax. A little publicity never hurt anyone.”
And right then, I know with absolute clarity, this woman is a threat to my daughter.
“Then how did the photographers know her name?”
Willow shrugs, staring out the window. “No idea.”
I’m boiling. “Do you realize what you’ve done? Amelia’s going to have cameras in her face for the rest of her life. No privacy. No peace.”
“She’ll be famous,” she says, grinning. “What’s the problem?”
I stare at her. This woman doesn’t see a child. She sees a brand.
“The problem,” I grind out, “is that she’ll grow up never knowing who to trust. Every stranger will already have an opinion about her. That’s the problem.”
Willow doesn’t blink. “You’re being dramatic.”
“You wanted the attention, didn’t you?”
She smiles like the Cheshire cat. “Maybe.”
I stare at her, cold and certain. “What will it take for you to give up your parental rights and walk away—for good?”
She tilts her head, thoughtful. “I don’t know yet. But I’m guessing it won’t be cheap.”
My stomach turns. “Have your lawyer call mine. I don’t want you near her again.”
She knocks twice on the partition. “Let me out here.”
The car pulls to the curb. She steps out, striking a pose like we’ve just had a romantic night out. The paparazzi eat it up.
“I’ll see you at the birthday party,” she calls over her shoulder, blowing me a kiss. “You were so fun that night. Too bad you turned into a dick.”
I don’t respond. I just shut the door.
And then I do what I should’ve done months ago.
I call Jim Adelson at Clear Security.
He answers on the first ring. “Marino.”
I lay it out. Everything. The last three months. The missed visits. The manipulation. The stunt tonight.
“Are you worried about your safety tonight?” Jim asks.
“No. But she’s playing me. Smoothly. She’s done this before. Maybe not with a kid, but blackmail? Guaranteed.”
“We’ll start looking into her background immediately,” he says. “Any signs of prior cases, patterns, financial pressure, we’ll find it.”
“Thank you. I’ll meet you wherever, whenever.”
“I’ll come to your office at eight. Can your nanny bring the baby?”
“Of course.”
I give the driver instructions to the underground garage. No more flashbulbs. No more headlines.
When we get home, Trixie’s at the kitchen island, sipping tea. Waiting.
“You’re home early,” she says, standing. “How did it go?”
“Worse than you could’ve imagined.”
She exhales. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
I walk her through everything—Willow’s arrival, her dress, the meltdown, the cameras, the attempted seduction, the way she spun it all like it was a photo op instead of a disaster. I tell her about the call to Clear Security, and the meeting first thing tomorrow.
“If they want someone else, someone with more tactical experience,” she says gently, “I get it.”
“I don’t want anyone else. Amelia loves you. That’s not negotiable.”
She nods, understanding. “When I worked for the Australian ambassador, it was like this. Constant press. Constant spin. I can manage.”
“We’ll see what Jim says.”
She steps closer and gently takes Amelia from my arms. “I’ll put her to bed.”
I pour myself three fingers of bourbon and drop onto the couch, the city lights glittering beyond the windows. Everything feels quiet—too quiet.
My phone buzzes.
Ellory: How did dinner go?
I stare at the screen.
And I realize…she’s the only person I want to talk to. The only person whose voice could make any of this feel okay.
I want to call her.
But the second I tell her about tonight, the paparazzi, chaos, mess… It's all part of the package, and once she realizes it, I risk losing her too.
And I don’t think I can take that.
Then her text lights up my screen.
Ellory: I hope you’re having fun. If you feel up to talking tonight, I’ll be up until about midnight. Otherwise I’ll see you on Saturday.
I stare at it for a second, then hit call.
She answers on the first ring, breathless, like she ran to get to the phone. “Hey, did you have fun?”
I snort. “It was rough. I don’t really want to talk about it. Not ready to relive it just yet.”
“No problem,” she says gently. “You don’t have to say anything.”
I exhale. “It’s not that. I just don’t want you to think I’m a bigger asshole than I already am.”
She laughs softly, low and warm. “Then tell me something else.”
“I thought about you almost all day.”
“Really?” she teases. “I hope it was G-rated, considering you were at work.”
“It most definitely wasn’t.”
“Oooh.” Her voice drops. “You better tell me what I did so I can do it again next time.”
I hesitate for a beat, toeing the line between restraint and honesty. Then I give in.
“I had you tied to my bed,” I murmur. “Spread wide. I went down on you. Took my time. Played with you until you couldn’t move. You were wrecked.”
She moans. “That’s hot. But sounds like a serious case of blue balls. Did you at least fuck my mouth while I was tied up?”
I groan, my cock already hard. “You don’t mind being tied up?”
“No,” she breathes. “Are you going to use those fancy knots, the kind where you can flip me around without untying me?”
I blink. “Where the hell did you learn about Shibari?”
“I read.”
“Ever tried it?”
“Nope. You?”
“I might have.”
“Did you like it?”
“Would it bother you if I did?”
“Mmm…no. I’m intrigued. What else do you like?”
“The list is long,” I admit, my voice dropping. “And getting longer every time you open your mouth.”
She hums. “If we were together right now, what would you want me to do? Something we haven’t done yet?”
I shift on the couch, unzip my pants before they do any damage and pray that Amelia doesn’t wake up so Trixie isn’t wandering around. “I’d start with a blow job. Not because you didn’t do it right last time, but because I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” she says, a sultry whisper.
I squeeze the base of my cock, trying to hold on. I picture traffic. Rebecca’s chocolate lab, Molly. My fifth-grade math teacher. Anything.
“I wanted to,” I grit out. “Next time, I want to watch you play with yourself and with your vibrator. I want to see exactly how you get off when you’re alone.”
“Would it bother you…if I was doing that right now?”
I chuckle, voice raw. “Only if it bothers you that I am too.”
“That only makes it hotter.”
“What’s your favorite position?” I ask.
“From behind,” she says without hesitation. “Deep. I think my G-spot’s further back.”
“Can I pull your hair?”
“You don’t even have to ask. You can spank me too.”
Fuck.
I stroke myself slow and tight, hips shifting. She’s got me undone with nothing but her voice.
“After the party on Saturday,” I rasp, “will you stay the night?”
“I think I can make that happen.”
We talk a little longer, tension simmering between every word. It takes everything in me not to grab my keys and head to her place right now.
Instead, I try to breathe. Stay grounded.
“I picked up a doll and little stroller for Amelia,” she says, sweet and soft again. “Figured she could use it like a walker. Push her babies around.”
“She’s going to love that,” I say, voice still rough. “But you don’t have to bring anything.”
“I know. But I want to.”
“Just come. Be with her. Have fun. Hopefully, Willow keeps the drama to a minimum.”
“I’m sorry tonight didn’t go as you hoped.”
“There’s always tomorrow.”
“Good night,” she whispers.
“Good night. I can’t wait to see you Saturday…and maybe…try a little Shibari.”
I end the call, still painfully hard.
I head straight to the bathroom for a cold shower.
Because if I don’t, I’m going to show up at her door in five minutes flat, and she deserves better than that.
I didn’t sleep.
Not even a minute.
I’m too angry. Furious, actually. At Willow. At myself. How the hell did I get her pregnant? I always use protection, for exactly this reason.
But none of that matters now.
Amelia’s here. She’s everything. This mess isn’t her fault. Her mother, though? A manipulative, money-hungry disaster in designer heels.
Before the sun rises, I’m on the Peloton, pushing thirty miles an hour like I’m being chased by a psychopath with a chainsaw. Twenty miles in just over an hour. It helps.
Sort of.
Getting Amelia ready for the office is a master class in chaos.
Today we have a meeting with Clear Security and they want Trixie and Amelia to join us.
I have a whole new respect for Trixie. Amelia might be tiny, but she rules the world like a pint-sized dictator who doesn’t speak English.
And somehow, she still gets everything she wants.
By the time we make it out the door and into the elevator, I’m drenched in sweat. Again.
The second we step off the elevator at the office, Dana rushes over. “Oh my goodness, those cheeks! She’s delicious.”
I glance at Trixie. “I mean it. I'm so damn grateful for you.”
She smiles, calm as ever. “Single parents don’t get nearly enough credit. Try not to be too hard on yourself.”