Chapter Sixteen
Brooke
I wake to the sound of buzzing. For a second, my foggy brain thinks it’s an alarm, but then the high-pitched crying slices through, Penny.
I swing my legs off the bed, but a wave of dizziness slams into me. I sit back down, hands gripping the mattress, breathing slow, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Oh God. I need to get to Penny.
The baby monitor blinks on the nightstand, her wails filling the room.
“Babe?” I call weakly. No answer. Why would Matthew leave the monitor here? Where the hell is he?
When I feel like I can stand without collapsing, I push myself up, using the walls for balance as I make my way out of the bedroom. If he wanted me to handle her, he could’ve put her crib in our bedroom. Instead, she’s so far away.
In the nursery, I bend to lift Penny and nearly topple forward, muscles screaming as I pull myself back upright. She keeps wailing, my presence doing nothing for her. My body feels like it’s failing me, again.
One hand on the crib for balance, I drag the chair closer with the other. Somehow, clumsily, I scoop Penny up and collapse into the chair, clutching her against me. I don’t drop her. Barely.
“Yeah, I need to change the pad,” I mutter under my breath, grimacing at the wet heat between my legs. I feel disgusting. Broken.
I undress enough to help Penny latch on, and finally, finally, the wailing softens into greedy sucking. Relief hums through me, sharp and fragile.
I sit there as my daughter drinks her fill, the rhythmic tugging at my breast anchoring me in the moment. I keep waiting for Matthew to appear out of nowhere, like maybe he’s just in the bathroom, or grabbing water from the kitchen.
Please.
He’s not here. He left.
I know him well enough to believe he’ll come back, but a part of me can’t help the thought: Is this it? Did he finally have enough? Did the nice guy finally get tired of carrying me?
“You know,” I murmur, brushing a fingertip over Penny’s cheek, “I met your dad in college. We were just friends and then I ran into him in Paris and well…”
I trail off, thinking about that story, then shake my head. “Maybe we’ll just tell you when you’re older. Or never,” I finish, trying to sound animated, like I’m telling a fairytale instead of confessing to an infant.
Penny doesn’t care. Doesn’t even blink, just keeps nursing, utterly unimpressed with my big romantic lead-in.
“I’m just a fridge to you, aren’t I?” I sigh.
As if in answer, her eyes flutter closed.
“Hmph,” I mutter. She doesn’t seem to do anything other than sleep, eat, or poo. Maybe this won’t be as hard as people say. Then again, they say labour is the easy part. Idiots.
When her mouth finally goes slack and her little body goes heavy, I stand carefully, every muscle on high alert, and lower her back onto the bed. She doesn’t stir.
I linger for a second, debating whether to head to the kitchen and look for Matthew. But the idea of facing disappointment if he’s not there makes my stomach twist.
Instead, I turn toward the bedroom. A shower. God, I need a shower.
Steam fogs the mirror as I turn the shower on, peeling off my clothes one piece at a time. The smell hits me first, sour milk, sweat, something metallic that seems to be seeping out of my skin.
I step under the spray, and let the hot water pound my shoulders. For a second, I just stand there, waiting for it to wash everything away. It doesn’t.
I glance down at my body. The stitches pull, tugging in places that should’ve healed but still feel raw.
My stomach is soft, caved in, like a balloon someone let all the air out of.
I used to love my body, tight skirts, crop tops, legs that got appreciative glances, from women.
Now? Now I can’t look at myself without flinching.
The tears come without warning, hot as the water. I press my palms against the tile, and bow my head. My body feels like a stranger’s, like I’ll never get it back. Never get me back.
The sound of Penny’s earlier wail echoes in my head. And Matthew not being there when I woke up, God, things between us feel so shaky, so in the air. I love him, I do, but I’m scared he only loves the Brooke he conjured in his head. And the real me? I’m just… a disappointment.
The sobs rack through me, muffled by the spray. What if he decides he’s done with me?
It’s not like I have much family to fall back on. My sister’s the only one, and she’s drowning in her own mess, with Zeke in the wind, her juggling the kids and work and everything else. I can’t ask her to carry me too.
I love Penny. God, I love her. But there’s a reason I wanted to be more solid before I had kids, more… something. Stronger. Stable. Instead, I’m crying in the shower like the worst cliché ever.
I don’t regret her. I don’t regret Matthew. But why is this so hard?
It seems to come so easy to other women, with their picture-perfect Instagrams, their neat little captions about #blessed and #momlife, they dance during labour, make reels after giving birth and I can’t even pick up my own baby without falling.
Matthew
“Good morning, everyone. Sorry I’m late,” I say, stepping into my office.
Dan, comfortably parked in my chair, doesn’t move. “It’s all right. We weren’t expecting you.”
I clench my jaw, forcing a polite smile, just as Ms. Sterling, the Boeing rep, rises along with her assistant. She shakes my hand warmly. “I was just asking Mr. Barrett here if you’d be joining us.”
A man who I’m guessing is Dan’s assistant pipes up. “Well, considering you just had a baby-”
“Oh boy,” Maya interrupts smoothly, eyes back on me. “Did Brooke have a boy or a girl?”
I smile, proud despite myself. “A girl. Penny. And besides, you’re not just any client. Of course I’m here.”
She beams at me, then cuts Dan a sharp side glance. “If I’d known this little detail, I never would’ve agreed to this meeting. We’re more than happy with the current terms of our contract. And, to be honest, I have an actual meeting to get to. Perhaps we can reschedule.”
“Of course, Ms. Sterling.” I answer.
“Just Maya,” she corrects with a small smile.
I nod. “Maya.”
I offer to walk her out. Right before the elevator doors open, she leans in. “Be careful of that one. He’s an ass.”
A laugh escapes me. “Couldn’t have put it better myself.”
The doors close. I turn back toward my office, my smile gone.
I walk back to my office, but through the glass I can see Dan and his assistant rifling through files like they own the place. My blood itches for a confrontation, but I clamp it down. Not yet.
Instead, I turn on my heel and head straight for the Managing Director’s office.
His assistant’s eyes widen the moment he spots me. He springs to his feet, stammering, “Uh…Mr. Basen, we… I thought you weren’t back until Monday.”
“Clearly,” I say dryly, sparing him the embarrassment of fumbling further. “Is he in?”
“Yes-yes, just…” He grabs the phone in a panic, dialling. “Sir, Mr. Basen is here to see you.” His gaze flicks nervously in my direction, then darts away. “You can go in,” he says quickly, hanging up the phone with a thud.
I take a deep breath and push open the door.
It’s like a black credit card threw up in here.
Chrome desk, leather chairs, framed “art” that looks more like something bought to impress than inspire.
Mr. Knore clearly walked into a showroom and told someone to “give me the most expensive stupid shit you’ve got.
” The whole place screams entitled asshole.
“Matthew,” Knore says, looking up from his oversized desk. His silver hair is slicked back, his suit probably worth more than my monthly salary. “Back already? I thought we gave you until Monday.”
I step closer, jaw tight. “I thought I’d check in, since someone seems to be running my accounts in my absence.”
He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Ah. You mean Dan.”
“Yes, Dan.” My voice sharpens. “Who, last I checked, wasn’t even on our payroll.”
Knore smiles like a cat. “Old friend. Brilliant marketer. I couldn’t let a mind like his go to waste.”
“Funny,” I say, bitterness slipping in. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks less like merit and more like connections.”
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t flinch. “Connections are merit, Matthew. The right people open the right doors.”
“And shut the wrong ones,” I shoot back.
He shrugs, almost bored. “Look, Hughes wants Dan on board. He trusts him. This is business. You’ll adjust.”
I feel my fists clench at my sides. Adjust. Like it’s that simple. Like years of building relationships, landing Boeing, holding this place together mean nothing compared to a college buddy shaking the right hand.
“You made him the head of my department without even consulting me,” I say, my voice low but steady. “I brought Boeing in. That’s my account.”
Knore’s smirk barely twitches. “You had no business approaching Boeing in the first place. You’re a manager. From now on, do the role you were hired for.”
The words slam into me, but I keep my face blank.
Inside, though, I’m seething. If I hadn’t gone after Boeing, no one would have.
Knore’s more concerned about his golfing buddies than this company.
And Hughes? Our illustrious President is more interested in taking advantage of free flights than showing up at the damn office.
Knore leans back, adjusting his cufflinks like the conversation is already over. “Dan is a proven strategist. He’ll be good for us.”
Good for him, he means. Another old friend with a safety net, gifted a title someone else actually bled for.
Knore’s eyes lift to mine, cold and calculating. “And Matthew, don’t mistake me. If you can’t adapt, there are plenty of people who would be grateful for your position.”
The words hang in the air. A threat, plain as daylight.
My jaw aches from clenching, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. If he wants me to just do the role I was hired for? Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll bury myself in the work. And when he and his golden boy screw this up, we’ll see who’s indispensable.
I turn on my heel and walk out, almost shouldering someone in the hallway because I’m too pissed to watch where I’m going.
“Ugh, they keep sending me to get coffee,” Trudy says, exasperated as she juggles a coffee cup and a stack of papers. “Like we don’t have a perfectly good coffee maker here. Please say you’re back.”
“I am back. If they’ll ever get out of my office,” I say flatly.
Trudy hesitates, logic tripping over politeness. She chews the inside of her cheek, glances around, then jerks her chin toward the tiny office tucked behind the bullpen, the one with dusty filing cabinets that we use to store old contracts.
“They’re not in your office,” she says, voice low now. “They…uh…said that as director, Mr. Barrett deserves the big office and… well.” She trails off, then adds, “I had them clean it out and put in a new desk.”
My mouth goes dry. Of course: not only does he get my job, he also gets my office.
“Thanks,” I say, forcing my voice steady. The smile I give is for show, brittle and small. “Thanks, Trudy.”
She gives a tight little grin and scuttles off, muttering something about entitled shits.
My fists clench. I want to march into what used to be my office and string Dan up by his neck. Instead, I swallow the rage, because I’m a professional. Because I have to be. But God, what a stupid name for a man who thinks a title and connections make him untouchable.
I head to my new office, smaller than half the size of my old one. Trudy wasn’t exaggerating. The desk is spotless, and the chair still has plastic on it.
There’s an upside, though. Instead of staring at the brick wall of the building next door, this one faces the street. The Manhattan skyline gleams in the distance, like something out of a movie. For a second, it almost feels like mockery.
I should be at home right now, basking in the newborn glow of my daughter. Instead, I’m here, sitting in someone else’s office, fighting for a job that shouldn’t be slipping through my fingers.
A stack of paperwork waits neatly on the desk, crisp and heavy, like it knows I have no choice.
I take a slow breath and pull out my phone, staring at the dark screen.
I hate that I left her. Hate that this is where I am.
But I’m the sole breadwinner right now. Brooke will have to understand. I didn’t have a choice.
I should call her, just to hear her voice, to apologise for not being there, but the thought of waking her makes my hand still. I slide the phone back into my pocket, deciding to wait for her to reach out.
This chair doesn’t creak like my old one when I lower myself onto it. Silver lining.
“Time to get to work, I guess,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.