32. Liam
LIAM
So far, Hellion has earned the name. She made buying a camera feel like a trial by fire. And six days in Chicago made one thing clear: business trips are suddenly inconvenient.
I’ve dated women who would’ve let me buy them anything. They’d protest out of courtesy, tell me I didn’t have to, then let me take care of it. For that, I never attach strings. I give because I can. Because I enjoy being the man who makes things happen.
Most people respond to status before they respond to the man.
That’s the reality of my world. Relationships start with what I represent—my name, my reach, what I can provide.
So far, I’ve never felt pushed to go that much further.
Surface worked. A convenient plus-one on my arm worked. One night at the Game worked.
Helena stripped that advantage in five seconds.
Money, status—she looks straight through all of it. Which means there’s nothing left to lead with but me.
And damn if I don’t like it.
“Lockwood.” I answer on Bluetooth as I clear the airport exit. “You alive, or did fatherhood scare you into hiding?”
“Iris is in labor.”
I sit up straighter without meaning to. “Like…now now?”
“Yes, now now.”
There’s noise in the background—movement, someone speaking softly.
“We’re at the hospital,” he adds.
“Good. Good.” I adjust my grip on the wheel. “I’m on my way.”
“Oh? You’re back in the city?”
“Just left JFK.”
“See you soon then.”
I merge onto the Grand Central and head for the tunnel.
Then it occurs to me—very abruptly. I’ve been on Marcus for months about sleep schedules, car seats, how not to fumble the kid like it’s the Super Bowl. But now that it’s happening? I have absolutely no idea what to do.
The last newborn I encountered was Max. I was four, which is old enough to retain images without knowing what to do with them.
I remember him, small and loud and impossibly new.
I also remember the house that day—shouting, door slamming, something hitting the wall.
Memory at that age doesn’t come with explanation.
You store the sound, the atmosphere, the tension. But no one filled in the gaps.
My phone buzzes. A text from Marcus.
Forgot Iris’ second bag. Purple one by the door.
Another text.
My wallet. Kitchen counter.
Apparently competence is in short supply today.
I turn the car toward Marcus’ house.
The second I unlock the door, I hear low growling, followed by fabric tearing.
“Blanket.”
The mutt is in the middle of what used to be a perfectly respectable cushion, feathers drifting through the air like festive confetti. He freezes when he sees me. Then resumes, slower, like he’s committed.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He drops the shredded remains and trots over, nudging my hand, leaning in for his due. The moment he’s satisfied, he swings back to the sofa, ready to finish what he started.
He and upholstery have an understanding, mostly hostile.
His favorite cushion was loved to death, and nothing since has ever measured up.
But this isn’t just about silk and stuffing.
The purple bag by the door smells like Marcus.
Iris is gone. He knows something big is happening, that his people left in a hurry.
I glance down the hallway. I could lock him in a room and deal with the fallout later. But the thought sits wrong.
“You’re coming with me,” I decide.
Whatever this day becomes, he’s not staying behind to figure it out alone.
Blanket straightens instantly. Tail up. Cushion forgotten. Assignment accepted.
I grab the purple bag and Marcus’ wallet while Blanket sticks to my leg.
At the car, I open the door.
“Listen carefully,” I tell him. “I’m gonna drop you off with Sabine, okay? For now, you will not test the leather.”
He blinks at me.
This is not promising.
I start the engine and pull into traffic. My hands know what they’re doing. The rest of me is somewhere else.
Hospital lights. Marcus holding something small, wrinkled and fragile. Coos, cries, and suddenly I’m standing too close.
I can restrain a thousand-pound horse having a bad day, but I’m far less confident about a seven-pound human.
“Blanket,” I mutter, eyes on the road, “did Marcus give you any briefings on baby protocol?”
He sneezes.
“Thought not.”
It’s a Sunday afternoon.
“You know what,” I say, an idea forming. “Operational cover.”
Blanket tilts his head.
“And yes,” I add, pointing at him, “you’re the reason I’m knocking on her door.”
Carroll Gardens moves at its own pace on Sundays. Just another morning in Brooklyn, unaware that somewhere nearby, a life is about to begin.
Helena lives above her studio, a modest townhouse with clean brick and a stoop worn smooth by years of footsteps and weather. I ease the car into a nearby spot that is very clearly not legal. Three minutes, tops. I’ll either pull this off or I won’t. Blanket stays in the car this time.
“Do not,” I tell him sternly. “Do anything.”
He watches me with indifference.
I take the steps two at a time and ring the bell. There’s movement, then her voice.
“Coming!”
The door opens.
Helena stands there in jeans and a vintage Polaroid logo T-shirt, hair loose, no makeup, camera strap still around her neck like she never quite puts it down.
“Liam,” she says, surprise flashing across her face. “You’re back.”
That lift in her voice almost makes me forget why I’m here. We close the distance easily, then a hug, and a kiss that threatens to deepen. Under different circumstances, I would’ve scooped her up and asked her where the bedroom is. Instead, I break the kiss.
“Helena, I need help. It’s about a baby.”
She blinks then tosses a tentative smile. “A baby?”
“Iris is in labor.”
Her smile widens instantly. “Oh my God. That’s amazing.”
“It is,” I agree. “However.”
She narrows her eyes. “Whenever a man says ‘however,’ I reach for a helmet.”
I laugh, but there’s no time. “Are you working?” I nod at her camera.
“Oh, no. I was just taking photos of Alaska,” she says. “I’m free.”
“Wait. One second.” I sprint back to the car and open the rear door.
Blanket looks at me like this was not in the original agreement.
“Out,” I say.
He descends with dramatic reluctance.
I lead him to Helena who’s now waiting at the curb, and nudge him into position. “He’s a bit sulky,” I explain. “I think he senses something’s changing. Could you dogsit him? Just for a couple of hours?”
Helena glances down at him. Blanket immediately attempts to look fragile. “Hey Blanket, how—”
Alaska bounds forward before she finishes the sentence. Within seconds, the two dogs are circling each other, play-bowing and bouncing around.
Helena watches them, then looks up at me. “Hey. Relax. It’s just your best friend having a baby.”
“Yeah, I know.” I don’t sound as convincing as I’d hoped.
“Go,” she says. “Don’t worry about Blanket.”
“Thanks. We’ll have dinner when I get back, okay?” I say, already turning.
“Go!”
I take three steps from the curb and stop. When I turn back, Helena’s biting her lip, badly disguising it.
“You’re afraid of babies,” she teases.
“I am not afraid.”
A jogger passes and Helena ushers the dogs up the stoop to clear the sidewalk. I move a half-step closer to the bottom stair.
“I’m not trained for that weight class,” I admit.
She laughs properly now. “Liam, it’s a baby. You hold it. You smile. You say something incoherent about tiny fingers.”
“I don’t do incoherent.”
“You’re about to.”
She stands at the top landing, mischief easing into something gentler.
“Come with me,” I say. “Please.”
Her brows lift. “And what exactly would I be doing?”
I rush to her side. “Standing next to me. In case someone tries to transfer the child into my arms without proper warning.”
Her eyes light up.
“I’d love to help you,” she says, then gestures toward the dogs. “But I don’t trust these two being home alone.”
Alaska launches herself at Blanket and the two of them collide, erupting into full-volume barking as Helena pushes the door wide open.
“Fair point.”
A new voice calls from upstairs. “Leany? Who’s that? And why do I hear two dogs?”
Helena closes her eyes briefly. “That would be my sister.”
Footsteps descend. A woman with the same eyes as Helena appears. She stops when she sees me.
“Well,” she says. “This must be the billionaire.”
After all my recent conclusions about Helena being immune to money and status, the word still finds its way.
Helena groans and shoots her sister a warning look.
I step forward and offer my hand. “Liam.”
Olivia takes it without hesitation. The resemblance is undeniable, but where Helena is contained, Olivia is kinetic.
Her earlier greeting sounds less like judgment and more like personality.
I’ve seen a photo of her in a police report, part of Helena’s background check for the Game.
Flat, neutral expression. In person, she’s nothing like that.
“So you’re the one messing up her front cortex,” Olivia says. “She’s been smiling at her phone.”
“I have not,” Helena protests.
“Leany, please. You practically glow.”
I decide not to engage with that word.
Olivia looks at the dogs, then back at us. “You need to go somewhere?”
“Hospital,” Helena says. “Iris is in labor.”
Olivia’s face brightens. “Oh! That’s wonderful.”
So she knows who Iris is. Of course she does. Helena doesn’t do half-briefings.
Olivia looks at the dogs again. Then at me. Then at her sister. “I’ll dogsit,” she declares. “Why don’t you two go?”
Helena hesitates for half a second.
“Done,” I say.
Olivia grins and winks at her sister. “Bring back stories.”
In the car, Helena clicks her seatbelt into place and angles a look at me.
“I think she approves of you,” she says.
“I survived inspection?”
“Barely.”
I ease the car back into traffic, this time straight to the hospital.
“You and your sister are close,” I say.
“She’s my person,” Helena replies. “She’s at Stanford right now. Med school after undergrad.”
“That’s impressive.” I’ve read that in the report too, but it sounds different coming from her. “You must be proud.”