Chapter 9
9
ADRIAN
Bass vibrates through my bones as I nurse a whiskey on the rocks, the clink of the ice cubes punctuating each beat dropped by the DJ. Limbs sway around me on the rooftop lounge, traders grinding the night away over another multi-million-dollar close. Their elation swirls like the technicolor lights reflecting off the glass and steel skyscrapers surrounding us, a buzzing energy I’m disconnected from.
I fish my phone from my pocket and check the Asian markets for the dozenth time, but the numbers on the screen blur. I don’t have the focus for this right now. Feeling the weight of the day, I down my drink and push through the sweaty throng of bodies to the exit.
“Calling it a night already, boss?” Tyler, one of the junior traders, shouts over the music with a dopey grin.
I force a tight smile. “Early start tomorrow. Don’t stay out too late, yeah?”
He throws me a sloppy salute before melting back into the crowd. I push forward, envying his carefree abandon. When was the last time I enjoyed myself at one of these outings ?
The elevator ride down to the lobby is blessedly quiet, a reprieve from the relentless noise above. I scroll through my apps and tap a request for a generic black car. Sam’s day ended a while ago.
Ten minutes later, a Mercedes-Maybach purrs to a stop at the curb. The unknown driver hops out and opens the passenger door with a tip of his cap. “Good evening, Mr. West.”
I nod back and slide into the seat, welcoming the calm hum of the engine as we merge into traffic. I should pop champagne right now, riding the high of another insanely profitable quarter. But I’m just… tired—worried. Terrified that all that I’ve achieved will be for nothing. This job, these wins—they’re all I’ve ever wanted and fought tooth and nail for since I first set foot on Wall Street.
And now, I stand to lose it all because I don’t have a wife and kids. And I lied to Dominic about it. If Rowena doesn’t accept my proposal, I can kiss my future goodbye. My hands shake and I have to grip my knees to make them stop.
What have I done?
I can’t even wrap my head around it. I lied. Flat-out lied to Dominic, to the one person whose trust I’ve spent years building. And not just a harmless little white lie. No, I conjured a relationship— an entire fake life with a pregnant fiancée —out of thin air. Who does that? I’m not the guy who spirals into impulsive decisions, not the type who lets fear dictate his actions. But today, I did.
The pressure is about to crack my skull open. This is reckless, even for me. I’ve always been calculated, methodical, driven by logic, not emotion. But today? Today, I let the visceral dread of my teen years coil together with the fresh fear of losing everything. That same fear I thought I’d left behind—the one that haunted me when I was young, when nothing felt secure—mixed with the terrifying possibility that everything I’ve worked for could disappear. My career, my reputation—it all felt so fragile, slipping from my grasp. And instead of controlling it like I should’ve, I let it control me. I panicked. And in that panic, I made a decision that could ruin not only me but this stranger I’ve dragged into my mess. A woman who’s pregnant, no less, and with a life that’s already in chaos.
And for what? To keep my position? To prove to Dominic that I can build a life beyond this office? Gosh, what if Rowena says no? What if she thinks I’m insane and bails? What if I have to face Dominic and admit it was all a lie? The fallout would be catastrophic. He’d fire me on the spot, and then good luck finding another job once I become a running joke on Wall Street.
And what about her? She’s got her own problems to deal with—what kind of person am I to put this on her?
Before I can spiral further, the driver pulls into the underground garage of my building. I mutter a goodnight and take the private elevator up to the penthouse.
Outside my door, I find a familiar cardboard box. Rowena’s stuff from her desk that she left in my car and that Sam dropped off with my doorman. I pick it up and fumble with my keys. The soft click of the lock is amplified in the night’s quiet. I toss the keys on the large console table in the entry hall and drop Rowena’s box next to them.
I peek inside at the scant remains of her professional life as I wonder for the millionth time since this afternoon how I could be so reckless as to ask a woman I barely know to upend her entire world. To bind herself to me, share my home, potentially my name, and pretend her child is mine. It’s insanity.
I scrub a hand over my face and look out the floor-to- ceiling windows at the glittering city below. For years, this view was enough. The pinnacle I clawed my way up to from nothing. But now, the sprawling space just feels… hollow.
“Jeez, I’m losing it,” I mutter. I need to sleep. And to figure out how the hell I’m going to convince Rowena to agree to this crazy plan before Dominic figures me out.
I head down the hall, flicking on lights as I go, shadows nipping at my heels. I’ll figure it out tomorrow.
I pause, undecided where to go. Before turning in, I should check on the Hang Seng and Nikkei indexes. Both had unusual volatility today, and I need to ensure we’re not overexposed in the Asian markets. It’s the responsible thing to do as CIO. But as I make my way to the office, my mind refuses to shift into work mode.
All I can think about is Rowena. Will she accept my outrageous proposal? Move in with a stranger over a decade her senior? Uproot her entire life to play house?
I chuckle humorlessly. When I frame it like that, it sounds mentally ill. No sane woman would agree to it. But I have to try. My job, my whole fucking future, hangs in the balance.
On impulse, I deviate from my office door and go back to the foyer. Without giving myself time to rethink, I pick up the box of Rowena’s stuff and bring it to the large living room table. Maybe her things will give me more of a pulse on what kind of person she is. I find sticky notes in a rainbow of colors. An army of markers and highlighters. But one pen stands out from the rest.
I pluck the novelty pen from the box, eyeing it curiously. It’s a Disney princess. Belle, from Beauty and the Beast . The doll has long chestnut hair and big eyes, the skirt of her golden ball gown composed by a feathery pompom. The figurine kind of looks like Rowena—except her irises are not a solid brown, but spark into green on the outer rim.
Is this some kind of sign? Am I the beast in our twisted fairy tale? A monster trying to trap a beauty in his castle of glass?
I set the pen down with a huff of laughter. I’m losing my damn mind. Reading way too much into a silly trinket. But it makes me wonder… If Rowena is the princess in this scenario, then my cold, clinical business proposal won’t fly. No woman—especially not one who wants a fable—dreams of an arrangement born out of necessity and nothing more.
Fuck. I’ll have to find another way to persuade her. Appeal to her practical side… how?
I keep rummaging through the box, curiosity getting the better of me. A framed photograph catches my eye, and I pick it up for a closer look.
Rowena is with two other young women, all of them dressed in bright, half-soaked pink dresses and blonde wigs. Well, two of them have wigs on—the third seems to be a natural blonde. They’re grinning at the camera, arms slung around each other. They look… happy. Carefree.
I study Rowena’s face, taking in her brilliant smile, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners. She’s stunning, even in a garish getup. But I decide that I prefer her as a brunette. There’s something about the warm tones of her natural hair that just suits her.
Are these the friends she mentioned earlier? The ones she’d hate to leave behind? I can see why. Will they be enough for her to choose New York? To pick me?
As I set the picture aside, a pang of something uncomfortable twists in my chest. Rowena has a whole life I know nothing about. People she cares about and who care about her. And here I am, eager to use it to my advantage… I really am the monster.
But offering her a way out that benefits me too is all I can do. I have a hunch she wouldn’t go for charity. She didn’t even want me to look into a job for her—which I did, anyway, only to find out the only open position we have is entry level and couldn’t sustain a single mom in this city.
Shaking off the thought, I keep poking through her things. A mouse pad printed with the words “I survived another meeting that should’ve been an email” makes me chuckle.
There’s more—a succulent plant that I handle with care, wary of the small but wicked-looking thorns. File folders. More pens. A stub ticket to Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour concert.
At the bottom, I find something unexpected. A wad of tiny strips of paper held together with a binder clip—fortune cookies messages. I pluck one free and read it. “The one you love is closer than you think.”
I scoff and move on to the next. And the next. Each message is more saccharine than the last.
“In dreams and in love there are no impossibilities.” Debatable.
“Love isn’t something you find. Love is something that finds you.” Gag me.
But there are also some funny ones.
“Borrow money from a pessimist. They won’t expect it back.” Ha!
Or weird ones.
“He who throws dirt is losing ground.” What does that even mean?
“Love is like wildflowers… it is often found in the most unlikely places.” Okay, kind of pretty. I guess.
“True love is not something that comes every day. Follow your heart, it knows the right answer.” This one’s so cheesy it makes me shudder.
I flip another one. “For rectal use only.”
A surprised bark of laughter escapes me. Then a chuckle. Soon, I’m cracking up, shoulders shaking with mirth. Tears blur my vision as I give in to the hilarity.
Gosh, what a roller coaster. This last message was so unexpected, so irreverent. This glimpse into her personality… it’s enthralling. Appealing.
I want to know more about her. But not just because I need her to say yes to me more than I’ve ever needed anything.
I read the last fortune cookie message. “If you eat something and no one sees you, it has no calories.” I chuckle, shaking my head.
I replace everything into the box except for the plant, my fingers lingering on the cardboard. It feels wrong that I snooped, but I’m also sort of glad I did. With a sigh, I glance at the succulent. Does it need water? I have no idea. I’ve never been much of a green thumb.
But it seems important to her, so I decide to err on the side of caution. I’ll leave it be for now. It’s a succulent, right? They don’t require frequent watering. Instead, I carry it over to the windowsill, where it’ll catch the morning light. There. That should do it.
Suddenly exhausted, I head to my bedroom. I strip off my suit, leaving a trail of expensive fabrics on the floor, eager to collapse into bed.
The mattress welcomes me like an old friend. For a long moment, I stare at the ceiling. My phone is a lead weight in my hand. I want to text her. Ask if she has thought about what she’s going to do. But it could come across as me pressuring her or appearing too eager, too desperate. Even if I am .
My thumb hovers over her contact. Rowena Taylor. I can’t tell if the flutter in my chest is nerves or excitement. Both, maybe.
Before I can second guess myself, I open a new message. The cursor blinks at me, mocking. Taunting. I flex and unflex my fingers… and start to type.