Chapter Seventeen
Ellis
It’s been a few weeks since my baby shower, and even in that time, I feel like my body has changed even more.
I’m carrying twenty extra pounds, my lower back twinges with a constant dull ache, and my feet are slightly swollen in my Italian leather heels, but I’ve never felt more entirely in command of my life.
I’m trying to work up to my due date as much as I can, so I can actually enjoy time off when he’s born. And work has been as busy as ever.
Over the past two weeks, my Overtime division finalized four massive, multi-million-dollar endorsement deals for professional athletes.
As the executive who negotiates every clause, guarantees every bonus structure, and secures final creative approval, I’m not about to sit in my home office and watch the commercial shoots from a live stream.
So I show up in person. That’s how I operate.
In my world, visibility is currency, and I refuse to cede control over a shoot that has my signature on every contract.
I structured today’s production call sheet down to the minute specifically to avoid unnecessary friction or overlap.
Dylan was scheduled for the early morning block.
According to the master schedule I had personally drafted and approved, Dylan should be completely wrapped, packed up, and off the studio set by now.
I’d purposefully timed my arrival for eleven fifteen, giving myself a buffer before Brody’s eleven-thirty call time. I have zero desire to cross paths with Dylan, but I’m certainly not going to let his presence dictate how I manage my business.
“Ellis! Thank god you’re here,” the production director greets me anxiously, rushing over with a headset dangling around his neck and a tablet tucked under his arm.
“Steve,” I say smoothly, stopping near the main monitoring rig and checking the clock on my phone.
“Where are we on the transition between sets? Brody Vaughn’s call time is in fifteen minutes, and as I mentioned, he’s in OTAs right now, so he can’t be stuck in the city with studio delays.
He has to be back in Jersey no later than three p.m.”
“I know, I know,” Steve sighs, rubbing his forehead, already looking exhausted. “Ellis…I’m sorry nobody notified you of the updated call sheet. We ran into a complete nightmare on block one.”
I raise an eyebrow, my gaze sweeping over the bustling studio floor, taking in the chaotic movement of camera grips, wardrobe stylists, and lighting technicians. “What kind of nightmare?”
“Boone’s team had twenty different notes on his wardrobe, and then he threw a diva fit on camera.
He insisted on re-shooting his opening line six separate times because he didn’t like how his jawline looked in the side-profile monitor,” Steve explains, lowering his voice.
“He was supposed to be wrapped and out the door before you arrived, but we’re literally finishing now. ”
“No,” I say, my voice level and smooth. “No one notified me.”
I don’t flinch. I don’t turn around and walk back to my waiting car. Instead, I walk around Steve and look toward the center of the soundstage, and that’s when I see him.
Dylan is standing under the lights, leaning casually against a custom ice-rink prop wall.
He’s holding a bottle of Overtime and wearing black athletic training gear, his toned, lean upper body the kind of build you see on a professional hockey player.
He’s tall, polished, and conventionally handsome in a shallow, symmetrical way that has lost any sliver of appeal on me.
He’s in the middle of a fake, theatrical move: taking a long drink from his bottle, then flashing his million-dollar smile for the lens.
The floor director shouts, “Cut! That’s a wrap on block one for Boone. Clear the set for setup two.”
The overhead studio lights change as crew members swarm the floor to move monitors, haul thick black cables, and switch the set from a hockey rink to a football field in front of a greenscreen.
Dylan steps away, grabs a plush white towel from an eager production assistant, and wipes his neck as he turns toward the exit.
His eyes sweep casually across the room and land directly on me.
He stops in his tracks. The towel hovers mid-air as his smug, polished expression fractures instantly into a dark mix of shock, then arrogance. His eyes fall to my stomach—to the very obvious swell of the child growing inside me.
I stand my ground in the middle of the studio, my posture confident, my shoulders back, my chin held high. I watch him approach with detached amusement as he tosses his towel carelessly onto a folding chair and begins walking straight toward me, his stride aggressive.
“Ellis,” he spits, his voice laced with venom as he stops in front of me. He keeps his back partially turned to the main crew, but he’s close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne. “What the hell are you doing here?
“Uh, my job, Dylan,” I reply calmly, my tone controlled. “You know that it’s my job to oversee production.”
His eyes dart around the crowded studio, checking to see if anyone is within earshot before fixing back on me. His upper lip curls in genuine disgust as he looks down at my bump again, shaking his head.
“Look at you,” he scoffs bitterly, a mocking laugh bubbling up from his chest. “Jesus Christ, Ellis. You look like a barn. You’re really doing this, aren’t you?”
A lesser woman might recoil. A weaker woman might feel the sting of a man rejecting his own flesh and blood with such vicious and unprovoked spite. But I’ve been raised in New York City’s cutthroat elite. Words from a boy like Dylan Boone hold zero weight in my world.
“Honestly, Dylan, this little temper tantrum routine of yours isn’t nearly as cute as you think it is,” I say smoothly, tilting my head with a slow, condescending smile that makes him look small and pathetic.
“You’re acting like a temperamental rookie who just got benched in the third period, and frankly, it’s gross.
Save your dramatic outbursts for your agent. ”
Dylan’s jaw tightens, his skin flushing red with anger as my words hit their mark with precision. He takes a step closer, leaning in, his voice dropping into a harsh, cruel whisper that vibrates with malice.
“Don’t give me your elitist, self-righteous bullshit,” he sneers, his eyes narrowing. “You got knocked up, realized I wasn’t going to let you ruin my hockey career or trap me into an eighteen-year commitment, so you went running to the first dumb, baller you could find.”
He lets out another harsh, mocking laugh, a sound that vibrates with transparent insecurity.
“I mean, come on. Brody Vaughn,” Dylan spits out.
“A football player. A guy who likes getting hit in the head for a living. Yeah, I saw your little public statement. He’s gonna play daddy.
How pathetic is that? Taking my sloppy seconds and covering up my mistakes for me because he’s too stupid to know any better. ”
“Say one more word about my girl or my son, Boone,” a voice rumbles from the shadows near the stage entrance, “and you won’t walk out of this studio on your own two feet.”
The air in the soundstage evaporates instantly.
Dylan goes completely rigid, the smug, arrogant sneer freezing on his face as he turns toward the voice.
Brody walks toward us wearing his team training hoodie, the sleeves pushed up past his forearms, exposing his thick muscles.
He looks intimidating. Six-foot-six of dense athletic power, built to shatter defensive fronts.
His jaw is set, his chest heaving with restrained rage, his eyes dark with a lethal intensity that makes Dylan look like a child playing in an adult’s world.
Brody doesn’t rush to us. He walks to me in slow, deliberate strides.
Dylan takes two steps backward, his hands coming up defensively. “Vaughn,” Dylan starts. “This is a private conversation—”
Brody doesn’t give him the chance to finish.
He reaches me in a single stride, stepping between us and directly into Dylan’s personal space, looming over him like a beast. But he doesn’t lay a finger on Dylan.
He’s too smart to give an asshole like Dylan grounds for a lawsuit or complaint, but his size is intimidating, even to another athlete like Dylan.
“You don’t talk to her,” Brody growls, his voice terrifying. “You don’t look at her. And you sure as hell don’t mention my son ever again.”
“Your son?” Dylan hisses, trying to muster up his usual bravado, though his shoulders are visibly tense. “That kid is—”
“That kid is mine,” Brody interrupts, his words cutting through Dylan’s like a razor blade.
He leans down, eyes locking onto Dylan’s, their faces inches apart.
“I’m the one who’s been with her from the very first appointment.
I heard the first sounds of his heartbeat.
I felt his first kick. I’m giving him my name, my home, my love, and protection.
His heart beats because of the life Ellis and I are building together.
He might not be my blood, but he is my son in every single way that matters. ”
Brody pushes against Dylan’s chest, forcing him to take a step back.
“If I ever hear your mouth open disparagingly against Ellis, if I ever see your face near my family, or if you ever breathe a single word of my baby’s paternity,” Brody says, his eyes dangerous looking, “I will personally make sure you never step onto a sheet of ice again. Do you understand me?”
The tension is thick enough to suffocate on. A few crew members in the distance have stopped working entirely, glancing over at us and whispering to each other.
Dylan swallows as he looks up into Brody’s stone-hard face. I can practically see when he realized that Brody wasn’t lying. He’s a man who would gladly burn down his own multi-million-dollar career to tear apart anyone who dares to threaten his family.
“What the fuck ever,” Dylan mutters bitterly, backing away, trying to salvage whatever pathetic shred of pride he has left.
“She’s all yours. Keep her. Keep the kid.
But the same goes for you two. You better make sure my name never, ever comes out of your mouths or anywhere near that baby in the press.
I don’t want a fucking thing to do with any of you. ”
“Fuck off, Boone,” Brody says, his tone flat and final.
Dylan stalks off toward the exit, his PR team trailing behind him, and slams the doors shut as he walks out.
What an asshole.
The sounds around the soundstage continue on when he leaves.
Brody turns his back to me, his shoulders rising and falling in deep, controlled breaths. I can literally see the tension in his back.
I don’t hesitate. I step forward until I’m behind him and reach out to place my palms against his lower back.
“Brody.”
He stiffens for a second at my touch, but then he turns to face me. His eyes are still a little wild and burning with anger. His hands are clenched into tight fists at his sides.
“Did he touch you? What else did he say before I came in?” His gaze roams over me, checking my body, looking for damage.
“No,” I say, a smile touching my lips as I reach and wrap my hands around his. “He didn’t touch me, and he didn’t say anything that matters.”
“He called him a mistake,” Brody sneers, his teeth grinding together so hard I can see the muscle flexing in his jaw. “He looked at you…at our boy…like you were nothing. I wanted to put him straight through that concrete wall.”
“I know you did,” I whisper, unclenching his broad fingers one by one, lacing mine tightly through his, and bringing his hand up to rest on my stomach.
“But he’s nothing, Brody. He’s completely insignificant in our world.
You and I both know who this baby’s father is.
It’s the man who takes care of me every day, the man who’s been with me at every appointment.
It’s the man who’s sharing his home with me and making it ours. His words have no weight.”
Brody looks down at our joined hands resting over my stomach.
Brody’s breathing gradually levels out. The harshness in his eyes melts away, replaced by love. He lets out a long sigh, leaning his head down until his forehead rests against mine.
“I love you,” he rasps, his hands tightening over mine.
“I know you do, Vaughn. And I love you,” I murmur, leaning into his solid warmth. “Now…you have a commercial to crush. And you’re on my executive clock right now. So get your ass in gear and get to wardrobe. I’ll be right here watching.”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “You could come with me.”
“Actually, I think I will. But absolutely no funny business, I have work to do. You need to get this done and back to the facility by the afternoon.”
“You didn’t mind my funny business this morning,” he says, pulling me in for a kiss.
“Okay, you have a point, but we’re working now and have a full day, so let’s go, big guy.” I pull away from him and smack him on the ass.
“Then stop flirting with me,” he teases, the confrontation still hanging between us, but I won’t let it ruin our day.