Babies for the Big Shot (Happy Ever Alpha Daddies)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Sara

“This is a terrible idea,” I say for the third time, stepping over a rogue bra and a pair of sequined heels.

Laura doesn’t even look up. She’s too busy trying to wrestle her boobs into a slinky black cocktail dress with a plunging neckline and enough shimmer to guide ships to shore. “You said that last time and we only barely got kicked out.”

“Exactly. You promised a chill night,” I deadpan, “and we ended up on a party boat with a mariachi band and a guy named Taser Jeff.”

“Taser Jeff was a vibe.”

“He tried to sell us moon water and then bit his own wallet.”

Laura shrugs. “New York, baby.”

I sigh and twist my hair into something resembling a sleek low bun, the kind that says I tried, but not too hard. Then I smooth down the dress Laura provided for me, a navy wrap number that hugs in the right places if I don’t breathe too hard.

“Where are we even going?”

“That fancy Midtown ballroom attached to the Armand Hotel. My boss had tickets to some fundraising gala thing upstairs. Bougie charity auction, free booze, bad jazz. She bailed last minute. Said the crowd was too ‘horny and ambitious.’” Laura smirks. “So naturally, I thought of us.”

“So it’s a fancy shindig,” I clarify flatly. “Have you seen the apartment I’m moving into next month? It’s not fancy, and if I don’t get a job soon there’s no way I’ll be able to afford even that!”

She tosses me a sparkly clutch and a pair of earrings that look like disco balls in miniature. “It’s free food. Free drinks. And you’ve spent the last week in a spiral of unemployment, ramen, and that cursed hoodie that reeks of defeat.”

“I like that hoodie.”

“You cried into it while Googling ‘can you list Etsy store reviewer as a reference?’”

“Okay,” I mumble. “That was one time.”

Meatball, my French bulldog and grumpy emotional support beast, waddles into the room with something pink in his mouth. I squint.

“Did he just eat my Spanx?”

Laura squawks and runs over. “Meatball, no! That’s compression technology!”

He growls, then flops dramatically onto the floor, a picture of cosmic injustice.

I narrow my eyes. “He’s pretending to be dead again.”

“He knows we’re going out without him,” Laura says, solemn. “It’s protest theater.”

Meatball rolls onto his back, tongue out, tail twitching.

“Fine,” I say, stepping over his furry tantrum. “I’ll go. But one drink. We sneak in, look fabulous, and ghost out before anyone asks us to donate money or dance.”

“Deal.” Laura grins, slipping her heels on. “Let’s show Midtown what two underpaid women in unchewed Spanx can do.”

Thirty minutes later, I’m in a bar clearly designed by someone who’s never experienced the soul-crushing despair of an overdraft fee.

The ballroom is peak old-money opulence.

Gilded crown molding, massive chandeliers that probably crushed a debutante or two in their day, and servers weaving through a sea of tuxedos and backless gowns with trays of champagne.

It smells like roses and money and the kind of cologne that costs more than my rent.

I clutch my borrowed clutch tighter and try not to trip over my own feet in these criminally high heels. Laura’s already halfway to the bar, beelining like a heat-seeking missile in search of vodka. Damn, I love her.

“This place is so us,” Laura yells, as she reaches for something in a martini glass that might contain actual gold flakes.

“I don’t think they serve ramen here,” I murmur.

We wander through the lounge, dodging conversations about “portfolio diversification” and “last season’s Milan show,” until I need air or sanity… whichever comes first.

“Bathroom,” I lie.

“Don’t fall into a hedge this time!” Laura calls.

I need air. Or at least five minutes without being judged by people whose napkins are probably monogrammed.

I spot a side door tucked between two towering floral arrangements, slightly ajar, with a brass push bar and the faint promise of moonlight leaking through the frame. It has to lead outside.

I slip through it, heels clicking as I step onto what I assume will be some fancy terrace.

But nope. No patio. No breeze.

I’m in… an elevator?

And I’m not alone.

He’s the kind of man who should come with a cinematic score and a five-second warning.

Dark hair, streaked with silver at the temples. A suit that definitely costs more than my rent. Green eyes, sharp jaw, and the aura of someone who’s permanently five seconds from firing someone.

He looks at me as if I’m a bug in his champagne.

“Wrong elevator,” he says, voice low and clipped.

“I was looking for the bathroom,” I say, backing toward the door.

“Is it usually located on the penthouse floor?”

I narrow my eyes. “Do you always greet women with passive-aggressive geography questions?”

His brows lift slightly. “Are you always this dramatic?”

“I’m just lost.”

“You’re in a private elevator.”

“You’re in my personal space.”

The doors slide shut with a soft ding.

Crap.

I reach for the panel. “I’ll just get off at the next floor.”

The elevator jerks. We both stumble.

Then… stillness.

I press a button. Nothing.

He sighs the deep, world-weary sigh of a man who can’t believe the universe has done this to him.

“I think we’re stuck,” I say.

“Brilliant deduction.”

I turn to face him, trying not to notice the way his shirt pulls at his chest or how good he smells… woodsmoke thick in my throat, spiced with leather and control.

“Do you have a phone?”

He checks his. “No signal.”

I check mine. “Two percent battery and I used it to Google ‘cheap date ideas involving soup.’”

He stares at me. “You’re joking.”

I gesture at myself. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

Another beat of silence. The elevator hums. The tension builds.

I shift awkwardly in my heels, now regretting both the shoes and my entire personality.

“Well,” I mutter, “at least if we die in here, I’ll be wearing a nice dress… even if it isn’t exactly mine.”

That gets him. Just a twitch of his mouth. But it’s there. A smirk.

“You find this funny?” I challenge, crossing my arms. “You, in your three-thousand-dollar suit, smirking while I spiral in cheap underwear?”

His smirk deepens. “It’s at least a five-thousand-dollar suit.”

“Of course it is,” I mutter, leaning against the mirrored wall, careful not to wrinkle Laura’s cousin’s Very Fancy Dress?. “Let me guess. You own this building?”

His head tilts slightly. “In part.”

I blink. “I was kidding.”

“I wasn’t.”

I stare at him, this smug, infuriatingly attractive man. “What, do you collect skyscrapers for fun? Build empires in your spare time? Drown orphans in espresso?”

He raises one brow. “Only if it’s decaf.”

I choke out a laugh before I can stop myself. It echoes around the elevator, surprising both of us.

He glances over, clearly intrigued now. “What’s your name?”

I hesitate. “Sara.”

“Sara…” he repeats, trying it on. “What do you do, Sara?”

“Currently? Survive.”

He nods once, almost as if he respects the answer. “I’m Nick.”

Of course you are. You look like a Nick. Tall, intense, possibly cursed by some old-money ghost and a tragic backstory.

I squint at him. “You don’t smile much, do you, Nick?”

“I’m smiling right now.”

“That’s… terrifying.”

Another flicker of a smirk. His eyes trail down, not in a gross way, more… assessing the situation. Or me. “So,” he says, “what exactly were you planning to do before the elevator hijacked your night?”

“Drink something free. Eat something on a tiny stick. Leave without being hit on by a man who quotes The Wolf of Wall Street.”

“Ambitious,” he murmurs. “You’re not doing a very good job of avoiding men, though.”

“You’re the one who trapped me in here.”

“I think you’re the one who pressed the button.”

I huff. “Great. So I die in a stalled elevator with a rich stranger who thinks he’s clever.”

He steps closer, slowly, eyes locked on mine. “I am clever.”

We’re barely two feet apart now, and the air between us is thick. Electric. I can feel it crackling under my skin, alive with some charged awareness that I’m pretty sure neither of us intended, but neither of us is stepping back from.

I break the silence with a huff and jab the elevator panel again. Nothing. Still stuck.

I spin toward him. “Okay, are we seriously just standing here while the air slowly turns into soup? When are we being rescued?”

He pulls his phone from his pocket again, his thumb already moving.

He’s calm, collected… infuriating.

“I already paged building security. They’ll reboot the system from their end.”

I blink. “You paged security? Who has a pager these days?”

“It’s faster. Usually.”

“Usually?” I echo. “How long are we talking here? Minutes? Hours? The length of a full Taylor Swift album?”

His lips twitch. “Somewhere between minutes and Folklore.”

I groan. “I can’t die in here. This dress is a lie, my heels are a war crime, and I have gum in my bra.”

He quirks a brow. “You store gum… there?”

“Emergency mint access.”

He exhales sharply, almost a laugh. I catch the faintest dimple on one side and suddenly I’m too aware of everything. His suit. His scent.

His mouth.

“Is this how you usually respond to a crisis?” he asks.

“I deflect with humor and then panic internally. It’s a well-practiced trauma response.”

“I see.”

“And you? Let me guess… you stare judgmentally and wait for the peasants to scramble?”

He takes a slow step closer. “I tend to prefer precision over panic.”

“Well, I prefer freedom over elevators with emotionally repressed strangers.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just eyes me, a puzzle he didn’t mean to start solving. “You’re a lot.”

“You’re not enough.”

That does it.

The air changes.

Thicker now. Hotter.

I don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s both of us.

But suddenly his hand is on my waist, my back hits the elevator wall, and his mouth is right there, hovering an inch from mine.

“Still think I’m not clever?” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine.

I can barely breathe. “I think you’re a walking bad decision.”

He smirks. “Probably.”