34. Pope
THIRTY-FOUR
Pope
I stare at the tabloid spread across my desk, the glare of my office lamp making the photos seem almost radioactive.
Sloane and me, caught in that private moment on the lawn. The night we thought we were alone, when she'd whispered against my mouth like I was something she'd been searching for.
Billionaire's Nanny with Benefits
My fingers trace the edge of the paper. Something primal builds behind my ribs.
The fucking vultures didn't even blur her face. They just plastered it for everyone to see, her career and reputation collateral damage in Chris's vendetta against me, his quest to rob his own son.
"Goddamn you.”
Chris. My father. The walking disaster who'd crawl through broken glass for money that isn't his. When the judge dismissed his petition and extended my guardianship, he couldn't stand losing. So he went nuclear.
My phone lies dark beside the papers. Three weeks since the photos hit. Three weeks since Sloane's name was dragged through the mud.
I crush the paper in my fist. The muscles in my jaw scream from being clenched for days. The rage is like acid eating through my chest.
I slam my fist onto the desk. The impact sends pain shooting up my arm, but I barely register it. I'd tried so hard to protect her from exactly this. I sacrificed everything we might have been to keep her safe from Chris, from the courts, from the scrutiny.
And for what? I failed at shielding her and I lost her.
My eyes burn as I remember Lennon asking why Sloane doesn't call anymore. The confusion in his voice gutted me when I couldn't give him an answer.
The television hanging on the wall, usually showing stock tickers, replays footage from two weeks ago of me dodging reporters outside the hospital. Warren tries to block cameras with his briefcase. They made it look like some sordid affair, like Sloane was just another conquest.
They have no idea what she was to me. What she is.
"I should have protected you better," I whisper to her image on the page.
The guilt sits like concrete in my stomach.
A sharp knock breaks the silence.
"It's open," I call, straightening in my chair, shoving the crumpled paper aside.
Just as I say it, my phone buzzes on the desk. Petey’s name flashes.
I just heard from my contact at Coastal. They let her go.
I throw the phone down hard, the glass rattling against the wood.
The door opens. Warren steps in, legal pad tucked under his arm, his expression set in that mix of lawyer-calm and friend-grave. He scans the room—news clippings scattered, three Perrier bottles half-drained, me looking like I haven’t slept in a week.
“Damn, Pope,” he mutters, pulling out a chair without waiting to be invited. “You look like hell.”
“Tell me we’re done with this circus.” My voice comes out raw.
He sets the pad down, slides a stapled packet across the desk. “You are. Judge signed the final order this morning. It's official now.”
I don’t move. The judge ruled over a week ago, so getting the paperwork is anticlimactic.
Warren leans back, arms crossed. “The court record speaks for itself. They called your guardianship stable. Lennon's school reports, his psych eval, the therapist’s notes are all solid. Judge even commented on his progress with peers and vocabulary. Kid’s thriving.”
I rub a hand over my jaw. “At least one of us is. These fucking photos are going to haunt me forever. The news cycle won't die.”
"Yeah, those. I'm sorry it went down like that. But it will die out eventually."
I rub a hand over my jaw, muscles tight.
Warren’s mouth curves. "I've got to take off. I wanted to drop these off for your records. Let me know if you need me. Now, we wait for Camila, right?”
My fingers tap against my knee, an uneven rhythm. “Yeah. Fucking hell. Her life is a mess, too. Poor Lennon, always caught in the middle.”
“Things like this tend to work themselves out eventually.”
I nod once, not trusting myself to answer.
He leaves the packet on the desk and walks out. The door shuts, and silence swallows the room.
My phone buzzes again. Camila’s name lights up the screen.
I pinch the bridge of my nose before answering. “Yeah?”
Her voice comes low, tired. “I’m sorry, Pope. Sitting through that hearing today, knowing I couldn’t tell the judge I was ready, it killed me. The divorce is dragging, the house I found is only a two-bedroom rental, and it’s not enough. Everything’s still a mess.”
I lean back, staring at the ceiling. “Judge made it clear Lennon stays here until you can. That’s the deal.”
“I know.” A pause, then softer: “But I see how he looks at you. Even when he’s with me and my kids, he keeps drifting back to you. He’s drawn to you, Pope.”
My throat tightens.
“What is this, Camila?”
“You’ve become his safe place. He doesn’t need to tell him that. You can see it in his face. He trusts you.”
I grip the edge of the desk, knuckles white.
“I hate that it’s like this,” she says. “I hate that I can’t give him what he needs yet. But I also know what I’m seeing. And so does the court. You’re more than just the half-brother right now. You’re his anchor.”
Her words lodge deep. I can’t answer.
“Camila, this isn’t fair. Are you saying you don’t want him?”
“No, don’t twist it like that. I’d never say that. I’m just… trying to take myself out of it for a second. If what’s best for him isn’t me right now, then I have to admit that.”
“I’m in no position to raise a child.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’re already doing it.”
Silence hums down the line. My jaw ticks, my chest heavy.
Her voice breaks on the last words. “Thank you, Pope. For keeping him steady when I can’t.”
The call ends.
I sit there staring at the final order Warren left behind, my pulse loud in my ears.
I shove Warren’s packet into a drawer and stand, rolling the tension out of my shoulders. The office is quiet, the hum of the air vent the only sound, but at least it isn’t my kitchen table anymore.
When I step into the hall, Steve Bellamy is fiddling with the lock on the suite next door. He glances up and grins. “Well, look who finally made it back.”
“It's good to be back in here,” I admit. “Better than staring at the same four walls at my home office.”
Steve shakes his head. “Never thought it would take over two months. Water doesn’t look like much at first, but once it gets in the walls, the sheetrock, rewiring, and mold remediation are a nightmare. Spreads faster than you can believe.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter.
He chuckles, shoulders lifting. “At least it’s all behind us. Welcome back to civilization.”
I clap him on the shoulder in parting, then head for the elevator.
Outside, the heat grabs me when I leave the cool air of the office building and cross the parking lot to the car.
The drive home is muscle memory. I barely notice the stoplights, the turns. My head’s still full of Camila’s voice, of the way she said you ’ re his anchor like it was some undeniable truth.
When I push through the front door, the house is quiet at first. Then I catch voices from down the hall. It's Margaret’s soft and coaxing, Lennon’s small in a way that guts me.
“Come on, sweetheart, just one more page,” she’s saying.
“I don’t want to.” His tone is flat, nothing like the boy the court thinks is thriving.
I pause in the foyer, keys still in my hand.
“You used to love reading with Miss Sloane.”
Silence. Then, barely above a whisper: “I don’t want to read anymore.”
The words scrape through me, jagged and sharp.
I lean against the wall, pressing my thumb hard against my temple. The reports, the evaluations, the judge’s comments, they all painted a picture of progress. But this is what’s real. Lennon is slipping backwards.
He’s quieter, smaller now. He’s missing her.
He isn't the only one missing her.
Camila called me his anchor. All I hear is the weight of him sinking.
Margaret hums something gentle, trying to redirect him. I can’t bring myself to walk in, not with my chest pulled so tight I worry it might split open. I stand there, listening, useless.
Eventually, I move, slow steps carrying me past the hallway and into the kitchen. I drop my keys on the counter and grip the edge until my knuckles ache.
The house is supposed to be safe. Instead, the air is thick and heavy, like it’s waiting for me to crack. Each room reminds me of what’s missing, of what I can’t fix.
Margaret’s voice drifts down the hall, soft and steady, Lennon’s quieter reply almost lost under it. I can’t listen anymore. I want to crawl out of my skin right now and need a release.
I push away from the counter and head toward the living room. Margaret glances up when I pass. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I lie. My voice is rough even to my own ears. “I’m going to the gym. I’ll be back in an hour, in time for you to leave on time.”
She nods, but her eyes linger a beat too long, like she knows more than she’s saying.
The drive takes less than ten minutes, but it’s long enough for Camila’s words to loop again. You ’ re his anchor. Every mile, the phrase grinds deeper. By the time I step into the gym, my jaw aches from clenching.
The place smells like rubber mats and disinfectant. The bass of someone’s playlist thuds from overhead speakers, but it doesn’t touch the hollow inside me.
I swipe in, grab a towel, and head straight for the free weights.
Bench press. Something simple, something I can load heavy enough to drown everything else out.
I lie back, wrap my hands around the bar, and push. The strain pulls across my chest, my shoulders, my arms. For a second, there’s nothing but burn. No tabloids, no court orders, no wide-eyed kid waiting for answers I don’t have.
But then I rack the bar, sit up, and the noise in my head rushes back.
I add more weight. Grip. Press. Again. The muscles in my arms shake, sweat stings my eyes. I chase it, that brief moment when effort drowns thought.
It doesn’t last.
I move through everything, the rows, squats, curls, like I used to every day before my life became so complicated. My body remembers the motions. Muscle memory, discipline. It should be energizing, like I'm in control, like progress.
But it doesn’t.
I'm just as empty as I have been for months.
I slam the weights down harder than I mean to. A guy across the room glances over. I ignore him, grab the towel, and wipe the sweat from my face. My reflection in the wall of mirrors looks back at me, eyes hollow, expression set in something that isn’t victory or relief.
I used to love this. I used to need it every day.
Now it’s just motion. Pushing and pushing, and nothing filling the void.
I drop back onto the bench, rack loaded heavy, and grip the bar one more time. My arms burn, chest tight. I shove it upward, teeth gritted, welcoming the strain because at least it hurts. At least it’s something I can control.
When I rack it, breath tearing through my lungs, I still feel nothing but the echo.
Camila’s voice comes back, cruel in its honesty. You ’ re his anchor. And all I can think is that anchors don’t save you.
They drag you under.