14. Pope
FOURTEEN
Pope
I jolt awake, my eyes scanning the darkness.
My ceiling fan rotates in slow, lazy circles above me, casting strange shadows across the room. Something pulled me from sleep. I think it was a sound, maybe?
I listen, straining against the thick silence. Maybe it was a dream.
The digital clock on my nightstand reads 2:17. The house settles around me, creaking softly with the ocean breeze. Beyond my balcony doors, I can hear the waves crash against the shore.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my bare feet meeting cool hardwood. I need some water.
The hallway stretches before me, bathed in faint moonlight filtering through the windows. I move silently, careful not to let the floorboards announce my presence.
Passing Lennon's room, I pause. His door stands slightly ajar, just as we leave it each night. I peer inside, make out his small form curled beneath his sheets, chest rising and falling steadily.
Not Lennon, then.
The kitchen beckons with its promise of water, something to clear the fog of interrupted sleep from my brain. I grab a glass from the cabinet, fill it from the filtered tap, and lean against the counter. The cold glass sweats against my palm, droplets sliding between my fingers.
My eyes land on the table we shared dinner. He was so lively, so happy tonight. It’s the first time he’s really talked to me.
Sloane was right, this program must have been just what he needed.
Something about the way she looked at Lennon and me across the table, something unreadable passing behind her eyes, sticks with me.
This arrangement is temporary. I know this. She knows this. Yet something about tonight felt settled. Domestic, even. The thought should send me running.
Instead, I find myself lingering over it.
I drain the water, set the glass in the sink. The quiet presses in around me, loaded with potential energy. Like a bowstring drawn back, waiting to snap.
I need to get back to bed. Tomorrow brings back-to-back investor calls and a strategy meeting with the hospital board. I can't afford to be off my game.
I head upstairs toward my room when a figure materializes directly in my path. We nearly collide, a startled breath escaping us both.
"Sloane?"
She stands before me in the half-light, hair loose around her shoulders, wearing what appears to be an oversized t-shirt. Her eyes widen with surprise.
Her bare feet shift against the hardwood as she steadies herself, her eyes half-asleep like mine. The hem of her shirt, definitely oversized, definitely soft, brushes against my forearm. Heat radiates from her skin.
"I was just checking on Lennon." Her voice comes out a whisper, rough with sleep.
“Is everything okay?”
“He woke up crying. He must have been having a bad dream, I think, because he never fully woke up. I helped him until he calmed down."
My eyes adjust to the darkness, picking out details. The curve of her collarbone, where her shirt hangs loose. The slight tangle in her hair. The way her eyes reflect what little light filters through the hallway window.
“He’s back asleep, now?"
"He settled back down pretty quickly. He never fully woke up and is sound asleep." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
I nod, suddenly aware of how close we're standing.
"Good. That's good."
Neither of us moves. The space between us is electric, like the air during a storm before the lightning strikes. The scent of her lotion drifts between us. It’s soft and floral.
Suddenly, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. My pulse thuds heavily and insistently in my throat.
What would happen if I leaned down, if I closed that small gap between us, and kissed her?
The thought alone makes heat pool low in my stomach.
She shifts her weight, and I swear she sways slightly toward me before catching herself.
“Why are you up wandering around at two in the morning?” She asks me, cutting the tension.
“I thought I heard something and came down for water.”
Her voice is hushed, a little breathless. Mine comes out lower, rougher than usual. I hear it. She hears it. The awareness hangs between us like static.
I’m suddenly conscious of my bare chest, of how close she’s standing. My mind betrays me, flashing with the thought of tugging her against me, of how thin cotton would slide across my skin before giving way to the heat of her body.
Fuck. No. That can’t happen.
But the air between us hums. My gaze drops to her mouth just as her lips part.
She notices. I catch the flicker in her eyes, the sharp inhale.
“I should—” Her hand lifts halfway, then falters.
“Yeah.”
Neither of us moves. The silence stretches. A heartbeat. Two. The weight of what we don’t say presses down harder than words ever could.
“Goodnight, Pope,” she whispers, and the sound of my name on her lips is a punch straight to the gut.
She steps past me. Just the faintest brush of her shoulder against mine, but it burns. My whole body locks tight, fighting the instinct to turn, to catch, to take.
Her footsteps fade. The soft click of her door feels louder than a slammed one.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, every muscle wound so tight I’m afraid I might combust.
Sleep is going to be a long time coming tonight.
I step into the Good Samaritan boardroom at precisely eight-fifteen, with the portfolio in hand. The room falls quiet as I enter. Exactly as it should.
"Good morning." My voice carries the practiced neutrality I've spent years perfecting. Not cold, not warm. Just authoritative.
The glossy mahogany table stretches before me, ringed with suits made up of hospital administrators, legal counsel, and two key investors. Every face bears that mixture of wariness and anticipation I've come to recognize.
I set my folders down and take my position at the head of the table. The projector hums to life.
"Let's begin with the financials."
My presentation flows like clockwork. Slides advance in perfect rhythm with my words. Numbers dance across the screen.
I go over profit margins, operating costs, and revenue projections. I know them by heart. They're as familiar to me as my own reflection.
"The transition to a membership model requires three distinct phases."
I pause, taking a sip of ice water. The cool liquid slides down my throat, washing away the lingering fatigue from last night's encounter in the hallway that still sticks with me like a nagging deja vu.
The memory of Sloane's wide eyes in the darkness tries to surface. I push it back down where it belongs.
Not here. Not now.
"Phase one focuses on infrastructure and staffing adjustments."
The boardroom air is crisp against my skin. My navy suit with subtle pinstripes sits perfectly across my shoulders. Everything in its place. Everyone in their role.
This is where I make sense, where the world works according to definable rules. More importantly, this is where I understand the game and all its pieces.
"We'll reduce overhead by eighteen percent while increasing premium services by thirty-two percent." I gesture to the chart. "The net result is this upward trajectory."
Dr. Kowalski, Chief of Surgery, leans forward. "And staffing cuts?"
"Surgical departments remain intact. Cuts will come from administrative redundancies and underperforming specialty clinics." My answer leaves no room for debate. "The numbers speak for themselves."
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Once, then stops. I continue without breaking stride.
"By quarter three, we project?—"
The vibration comes again. Same pattern. When I have several calls so close together, naturally, I wonder if it is important.
I check my watch, allowing a flicker of annoyance to show. I'm almost certain this is the number for Dana Black, the court-appointed administrator.
Pressing my tongue against my teeth, irritation simmering, I signal for my VP of Operations to pick up the presentation and step out into the hospital hallway.
"Excuse me for one moment," I motion to the room as Caleb smoothly takes over where I left off.
I step toward the door, the rhythm of my presentation suddenly broken. The contrast is jarring, from complete command to this unexpected interruption.
I close the boardroom door behind me.
I swipe to answer. “Carrigan.”
“Mr. Carrigan, this is Dana Black, the court-appointed guardian ad litem for Lennon Lopez.”
"Hi, Ms. Black. How can I help you?"
“How’s Lennon doing? How’s the transition been?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and keep walking, trying to level my tone. I don't have the time or patience for a catch-up session. “He’s fine.”
A beat passes. I can hear myself being short, but I don’t fix it. I make a note to have Lenoir write an email asking for specific meetings to be planned in advance, so I don't worry that something is wrong when she is just impatient.
"That's good to hear. He's such a sweet boy."
“Is there a reason you’ve called three times, Ms. Black? I don't mean to be curt, but I'm in the middle of an important meeting.” I try to soften the edge in my voice, but I know my annoyance is coming out in spades right about now.
Her reply is immediate. “Yes. I wanted to tell you directly. Chris Carrigan filed to contest guardianship.”
I stop walking.
I force my voice level. “Will you please repeat that?”
“I’m required to notify you that Christopher Carrigan has filed a petition with the court to contest your temporary guardianship. A preliminary hearing has been set for ten days from now.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “He filed?” The bastard.
“Yes. My role is to represent Lennon’s best interests.
I’ll be meeting with you, Mr. Carrigan, and Lennon in the coming days to prepare my report for the court.
If you could give me some dates and times that would suit you, I will coordinate with my office and Mr. Christopher Carrigan to come up with a date that works for all parties.
Would you be able to bring Lennon to meet at my office in Jacksonville in the next couple of days? ”
I pace three steps, my reflection sliding across the glass wall of the boardroom. Mother fucker. No, Ms. Black. I don't have the fucking time to fly up to Jacksonville to fight my father for custody.
“I'll make it happen. What happens now?”
“You’ll be receiving formal notice from the court, including the hearing date and requirements. I strongly recommend you retain family law counsel as soon as possible. I can’t advise you beyond that. And, of course, the three of us will have to meet before the hearing date.”
My jaw aches from the grind of my teeth. “You’re telling me Chris thinks he can just swoop in now, after everything he's done and not done for the last seven years, and take him?”
“I’m only relaying the process, Mr. Carrigan,” she says evenly. Her voice doesn’t change, and she remains as steady as stone. “I’ll be in touch to schedule a time to meet with Lennon. That’s all I can share at this point.”
"Okay, thank you for the call. I'll have my assistant get those dates to you as soon as this afternoon. How quickly will we know when we will meet?"
"Once I talk to the other Mr. Carrigan, I can give you both the date."
"Thank you."
The line clicks dead a second later, leaving me staring into the pane of glass, the muffled voices of the board still carrying through the door.
Chris isn’t circling anymore. He’s here. And if he thinks he can treat Lennon like a bank account with legs, he’s about to find out just how hard I’ll fight.
I slam my office door shut, already dialing Vic's number. Blood pulses through my temples as the phone rings. Once, twice?—
"Pope. What's the latest crisis?"
Vic Gesser has been CHG's corporate attorney since the beginning.
"I need a family lawyer, Vic." My pacing stops at the window. Beyond the glass, palm trees sway, mocking my inner storm with their carefree dance. "Not corporate. Family law. The best one in Palm Beach. Today."
"Slow down. What happened?"
I sink into my desk chair, swiveling to face the ocean. "My shithole of a father is contesting guardianship of Lennon."
"Your father? The one you haven't spoken to in?—"
“Six years. Yes." My free hand curls into a fist on my desk. "He filed papers. There's a hearing in ten days."
Vic's sigh travels through the phone. "Pope, you know this isn't my area. The firm doesn't handle family court matters."
"I don't care. Find me someone who does."
"It's not that simple. Family court is its own beast?—"
"It is that simple. I need the best family lawyer in Florida, and I need them today."
A pause. "This is getting personal for you."
"Of course it's fucking personal. I may not have known this kid before this, and this was supposed to be an easy safety landing spot until his cousin could get her shit together, but he is my brother. And no matter what, he can’t live with Chris.”
The front door opens downstairs. Sloane and Lennon must be back from Seabreeze. Lennon's voice floats up, higher and more animated than I've heard before, talking about something called a sea hare. Sloane responds with that warm laugh I'm starting to recognize.
My chest tightens.
"Pope? You still there?"
"Yeah." I lower my voice. "I need someone who specializes in this. Who understands what we're up against and who will make sure that dickhead doesn't come anywhere near this kid."
"You want my honest advice? Find someone local for this. Florida’s family court has its own rules, its own judges. You need someone with relationships."
"Fine. Call your contacts. Get me names. I need someone, man. Make it happen."
"I'll make some calls."
"Today, Vic. Now.”
I hang up and stare at the wall. The family photo of Lennon and Maria that Camila gave me sits in plain view.
I barely know the innocent boy sleeping under my roof. Three weeks ago, he was an abstract concept, my father's son with his third wife. A responsibility I agreed to shoulder temporarily.
Now, I've seen how he wraps his arms around himself when he's scared, how he stares at the floor instead of making eye contact. I recognize how he flinches at sudden movements.
I've also seen glimpses of who he could be. He's obviously very curious and smart.
Chris doesn't want Lennon. He wants whatever money comes with him, or he wants to hurt me, or both. What he'll do is crush that little boy's spirit just like he tried to crush mine without a second thought.
Not this time.
I'm not just holding Lennon for Camila anymore. I'm keeping him safe from Chris. And if my father wants a war, he'll get one.
No matter what it costs me.