4. Pope
FOUR
Pope
The numbers on the spreadsheet blur together as I stare at my monitor. Good Samaritan's financials need restructuring before Monday's board meeting, but my focus keeps slipping.
My mouth waters at the memory of dark hair spilling across my pillow. A laugh that cut through the bullshit. The warmth of her skin under my hands.
She was gone before dawn, no note, no awkward goodbyes. Clean and uncomplicated. Exactly how I like it.
I refocus on the proposal glowing on my screen. The east wing needs a twenty-million-dollar overhaul to convert it into private suites with concierge service.
On paper, Good Samaritan could handle it. In my head, I’m already picturing the name on the donor wall: Carrigan Health Group – Palm Beach .
My phone buzzes against the glass desktop. It's an unknown number with an area code I don't immediately recognize, but I'm almost certain it's a Florida number. It's probably another vendor trying to get ahead of the bid process. I let it ring through to voicemail.
Thirty seconds later, it buzzes again. Same number.
I ignore it, marking up another section of the proposal. The phone falls silent.
Then it starts again.
"For fuck's sake," I mutter, grabbing it on the fourth ring. "Pope Carrigan."
"Mr. Carrigan." It's a woman’s voice, steady, no bullshit. "My name is Camila Reyes. I’m Maria Lopez’s cousin."
The name pings somewhere in the back of my head, faint and out of reach. Someone from years ago? I can’t place it.
"I’m not sure I?—"
"Maria died three days ago. Cancer." No preamble. Just facts. "She was Lennon’s mother."
And there it is. The memory slots into place like a punch to the ribs. I remember Maria, a young mother, around my age, holding an infant while my father grinned like he’d found redemption.
Maria was my father's third wife. Lennon is their son, my half-brother, whom I only met once.
My jaw tightens. I swivel my chair toward the window, watching a yacht glide along the Intracoastal. The sunlight reflects off the water in sharp, white fragments.
"I'm listening." My voice stays cool, controlled.
"It's about Lennon."
Lennon. Maria and my father had brought him to Denver when he was maybe six months old. She'd had this hopeful smile, like maybe I could be the bridge between her son and the Carrigan side of his family.
I wasn't.
It didn’t take long for her to realize the Carrigan connection was toxic. My father left her and Lennon soon after. I’m sure it hurt, but I know from experience it was a blessing.
Chris Carrigan makes deadbeat fathers look good. He’s a monster, and an even worse parent.
"What about him?" My fingers clench around the phone.
"He's seven now. He has no other family that can take him." Camila's voice wavers for the first time. "And your father is about to be notified as next of kin."
I can hear a subtle sniffle through the phone, although she remains stoic.
Why is she telling me this?
"I'm sorry to hear. My condolences."
"This isn't a courtesy call, Mr. Carrigan. It's about Lennon, and what's going to happen to him now."
“I’m very sorry to hear, but I’m not sure what this has to do with me.”
"Your father is going to want custody when he finds out about the estate Maria left for him. It's modest, but it's all Lennon has to set him up," Camila continues, her voice hardening.
"He is his father. I’m not sure there’s anything I can do about that.” The words scrape out harsher than I mean them. “We both got dealt a shitty hand. He’ll survive. I did.”
The lie sours in my mouth. I didn’t survive — I clawed my way out. And I know damn well I was the exception.
Images press in before I can shove them away: my mother’s face, pale and silent the morning after one of his rages. She used makeup to hide the bruises, but I could still see them. His hand raised, his voice shaking the walls. The emptiness he left when he finally walked.
"If he’s lucky. But you know better than anyone that the odds are against him if that man raises him. Without his mother to buffer Chris’s worst instincts…” Her voice catches. “You know what that looks like better than anyone.”
She’s right. And I hate that she’s right.
"Lennon is with me in Jacksonville right now, but I can’t keep him long-term, at least now. I have my own life struggles. I think I can adopt him, I just need some time so that Chris doesn’t get him.”
"And that concerns me how exactly?" I press my fingertips against my temple, trying to stave off the headache building there.
"I'm out of options." The professional veneer cracks slightly. "I'm in the middle of a divorce. My ex cleaned out our savings. I've got two kids of my own in a small rental with inconsistent custody arrangements."
I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. This isn't my problem. Lennon isn't my responsibility. I've never even had a real conversation with the kid.
But the words dig under my skin anyway.
"The court would never approve me as his guardian right now," Camila adds. "Not with my situation."
"Ms. Reyes?—"
"Please, Mr. Carrigan. Please help this child have a chance in life. You're the only hope he has right now."
My jaw locks. Yeah, I know. I lived it.
I close my eyes and see a flash of memory—my father's hand raised, his voice booming through our small apartment. My mother's face the morning after, makeup carefully applied to hide the bruising.
"Chris doesn't want Lennon," Camila says, cutting through my thoughts. "He wants Maria's estate. The life insurance, the house she inherited from our abuela, the money she saved for Lennon's college fund."
My stomach twists. Of course he does. Chris Carrigan has always viewed people as resources to exploit. I've spent most of my life trying not to be anything like him.
"Listen, I sympathize with your situation, but?—"
"No, you listen." Her voice drops lower. "Maria was a second-grade teacher. She worked summers at camps. She built this life for her and Lennon by herself. Every dollar she saved was for that boy's future. And your father will burn through it in a year."
I stand abruptly, moving to the window. Palm trees sway in the afternoon breeze, indifferent to the chaos unfolding in my carefully ordered life.
"What exactly are you asking me to do?"
"I'm asking you to take him, just for now, so the court has another option besides Chris. Once this dies down and I get back on my feet, he can come live with us."
The words hang between us, heavy with implication. Take a seven-year-old? Me? I run companies, not playdates. I work eighteen-hour days. I'm in the midst of a multi-million-dollar hospital acquisition.
I pace across the office, my controlled stillness completely gone. “I wish I could. I have no idea how to care for a child.”
“You’re better than the alternative. I will help you get set up. You could hire a nanny to help you.”
“Why are you calling me? He doesn't know me."
“You're the only stable family he has." Camila's voice cuts through my excuses. "And you don't have to be perfect, you just have to not be Chris."
The words hit me like a shot to the chest. My throat tightens.
"Look, Ms. Reyes?—"
"Camila."
"Camila. I'm not equipped for this."
I rub my hand along my jaw, remembering that brief visit years ago. Chris put on a good show, giving his best imitation of a doting father, parading his new family like trophies he’d earned.
Maria had glowed with new-mom pride, cradling Lennon against her chest, blissfully unaware of the monster standing beside her. Or, maybe she knew exactly what he was and hoped a child would soften him.
I push the memory aside.
"I run a healthcare investment firm. I work eighteen-hour days, and I’m living in a hotel. A judge won’t call that stable."
"I’m begging you.” Her voice softens, the steel thinning just enough to slip through my guard.
I move to the window, resting my forehead against the cool glass. Below, Palm Beach goes on without me. The blue water, white yachts, and a perfect afternoon unfold in stark contrast to the dark pleas being thrust upon me.
"When I’m stable, I’ll take him in, like Maria and I planned. I just need you to keep him safe from Chris until then."
The concept of temporary slides under my defenses. Temporary I can do. Temporary has an exit strategy.
Still, the logistics are a nightmare. "How long are we talking about? A month? Six months?"
"I don’t know yet." No hesitation, no sugar-coating, just truth. “If the divorce goes smoothly, then it won’t be long. Maybe two months?”
Two months. A day seems overwhelming, but two full months is an eternity.
My grip tightens on the phone. “I can’t, Camila. I don’t even know the kid. This isn’t my responsibility.”
Silence. Then, quiet steel in her voice: “Then you’re leaving him to Chris.”
The line clicks dead before I can respond.
The image of Chris raising him makes my stomach turn. A protective instinct I didn't know I had stirs inside of me. I remember my own childhood, the constant fear, the absence of any safe place.
I snatch the phone back up and hit redial before I can talk myself out of it.
She answers, clipped. “What?”
I grit my teeth. “What’s the legal process here?” My voice is flat. “What would I have to do? And you’ll help set up a nanny and schooling? I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
There’s a pause. And then her tone shifts back to professional. “You’d have to apply for temporary guardianship. Probate court moves quickly in these cases. If you agree, Maria’s estate attorney can file for you before Chris is officially notified.”
The situation crystallizes in my mind. Numbers, variables, and outcomes, the same way I evaluate any investment opportunity. Except this isn't about profit margins. It's about a child.
My entire body tenses as buried trauma rushes back to the surface.
Therapy helped me manage it, but the fight-or-flight response is still instinctive.
I know it well, the constant eggshell walking, the unpredictable rage.
Unless you’ve lived it, you can’t understand the profound loneliness of having a father who sees you as a burden or a prop, never a person.
It’s the reason I vowed never to have children.
"Tell me about him." My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"He's quiet and smart. He has Maria's sarcastic streak. He's..." She pauses. "He's grieving. He barely speaks right now."
I say nothing for a long moment, just listening to her breathe on the other end of the line. The weight of this decision sits on my chest like a stone.
"You're the only person who can make sure he doesn't lose everything." Her voice cracks but remains steady.
Fuck. I've spent my entire adult life building walls to avoid exactly this kind of entanglement. Family, obligation, and messy emotions that can't be controlled with strategic planning.
I can do anything for a couple of months. Right?
"How about this? I'll email you the paperwork tonight for you to look over." Camila fills the silence. "Think about it, but not too long. Time isn't on Lennon's side."
The call ends more softly this time, leaving me alone in the sudden silence. The room is suddenly too small, like the walls have inched closer while I wasn't looking.
I stand in the center of my office, rolling my shoulders against the tension building there. The hum of commotion in the hallway grows louder in the quiet, a white noise that I normally don’t register, but only heightens my awareness of being utterly alone with this decision.
I can't be responsible for a child. I wouldn't know the first thing about what to do for him to make sure he has what he needs.
My gaze drifts back to the abandoned proposal on my screen. Numbers and projections that made perfect sense an hour ago now seem trivial compared to the weight of a seven-year-old's future.
The afternoon sun glints off the water, boats drifting along like nothing has changed. But everything has changed. Camila's words echo in my head: You don't have to be perfect. You just have to not be Chris.
My phone pings with a new email. Camila is already following through with sending the guardian paperwork.
I tell myself I'm just looking at options as I open the attachment, but the truth is already pressing in.
I may not know this kid, but we share the same blood. And unfortunately, the same father.
My hand curls into a fist on the desk, knuckles white against the glass surface.
"Son of a bitch." The words escape through clenched teeth, and I'm not sure if I mean my father or myself.
I drop into my chair, staring at the guardianship paperwork on my screen. The form is simple, almost insulting in its brevity, considering what it represents. Name. Address. Relationship to minor child.
One signature, or lack thereof. That’s all it would take to change both our lives forever.
I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t.