16. Reed
Reed
The judge has reading glasses and has not been surprised by a custody filing since the previous administration.
Vanessa’s lawyer sets the school photo on the table like evidence at a trial. Harper’s hand in Mia’s, the parking lot, afternoon light catching them mid-step. He uses the word strangers three times in four sentences, each time letting it breathe before moving on.
My lawyer doesn’t give him the air. He’s already moving, the financial disclosures, the mural contract, the hospital project commitment, three weeks of documented presence that turns stranger into a word without a target.
He uses engaged the same way and often, and by the third time he says it Vanessa’s lawyer stops writing things down.
The judge listens with his glasses pushed up and his hands flat on the table. When the last argument runs out he looks at both of us over the frames.
“Two parents, both capable, both willing to make this child’s life difficult if I let them.
” He sets his pen down. “I’m not letting them.
” He looks at Vanessa, then at me. “Two weeks. Sit down without the lawyers and find an arrangement that puts your daughter first. Come back with an agreement and we’re done.
Come back without one and I start asking questions that neither of you has prepared for. ” He picks the pen back up. “Clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” my lawyer says.
Vanessa’s lawyer echoes it a second later, which tells me his client is not happy with how this morning went.
I drive back to the office with two fingers at the bridge of my nose at every red light. Two weeks is not a win, it’s a delay, and Vanessa knows how to use a delay. I call Celeste from the garage before I’ve cut the engine.
“We’re delayed by two more weeks,” I tell her.
“Damn, that sucks, but Reed...” A short silence. “Call her yourself. Don’t make me the messenger on this one.”
I tell her I will. I get upstairs, clear the Walsh emails, read Vincent’s board update twice without a single word going in.
At five I pick up my phone and text Mia the office address, asking her to come.
I’m on the same Walsh projection line for the third time when my assistant knocks and opens the door.
“Miss Calder is here,” she says, and Mia is already in the doorway behind her, jacket on, a coffee cup in each hand.
“I didn’t know which way the hearing went,” she says. “So I brought coffee either way.”
I check the cups. Calder Bakes sleeves, which means she went back to the bakery before coming here.
“It’s fine,” I tell my assistant. The door closes.
Mia sets one cup on my desk, drops into the chair across from, wraps both hands around hers. She’s in her work clothes, a flour smear on her left forearm where she missed it washing up, sitting in the chair in my office on the thirty-second floor.
“Two more weeks,” I tell her. “Judge wants us to reach an agreement before he schedules the full hearing.”
“And Vanessa?”
“Will use both of them.” I lean back. “The photo didn’t do what she needed. My lawyer got ahead of it.”
Mia turns her cup in her hands, quiet, taking it in.
I look at my desk. The Walsh files, the board update, and two weeks on the clock.
“I want to give you an out,” I say.
Her hands go still.
“We’re at three weeks. The board dinner held, Sharpe hasn’t moved, the hearing bought time.
” I keep my eyes on the desk. “But this got bigger than either of us signed up for. Vanessa on television, the custody motion, the contract leak. That wasn’t the deal you agreed to at five in the morning over a piping bag.
” I meet her eyes. “If you walk now, Celeste has a quiet exit ready. Mutual decision, no comment, nothing that feeds Vanessa’s case.
You keep the rent, you keep the mural, you go back to your life with everything you were promised.
I’m not asking you to stay for the full six weeks if this isn’t what you signed up for. ”
Mia sets her cup on the edge of my desk and leans forward on her elbows.
“No,” she says.
“Think about what—”
“I said no, Reed.” Her voice doesn’t rise, it cuts.
“I’m not walking because the custody battle with Vanessa isn’t over yet.
If the full hearing happens and they put me on the stand, I’ll go.
Tell me what the lawyer needs and I’ll give it to him.
” She holds my gaze across the desk. “I’m not going anywhere. ”
I have nothing. Three weeks of holding a line and she just walked through it in two sentences, so I get up.
She watches me come around the desk and stands when I reach her. I get my hands on her face, tilt her chin up, and kiss her.
There’s no slow in it. She kisses back hard, fists in my lapels. I walk her backward until her shoulders hit the door and I feel the impact through my palms. I pull back one inch.
“You’re sure?” I ask.
“Reed,” she says, “if you ask me that again I’ll use the coffee.”
I get her jacket off her shoulders and drop it. I put my mouth on her throat while she works my tie loose, gets it over my shoulder, goes straight for my shirt buttons. I get her blouse untucked, run both palms up her bare back. She arches into my hands with an inhale that she doesn’t try to quiet.
I walk her from the door to the window.
She glances back at the glass, at the city thirty floors below.
“Nobody can see in,” I say.
“You sound very sure about that,” she says.
“One-way glass.” I move to her collar, her shoulder, the top of her spine. “Trust me.”
She reaches back for my belt instead of arguing. I get her blouse off her shoulders, unhook her bra, and step back. She’s standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass in just her skirt, afternoon light flat across her shoulders and her collarbone.
She raises an eyebrow. “Useful,” she says. “Any time.”
I cross to her, get both hands on her waist, and turn her to face the glass.
Her breath catches. “Reed.”
“Hands on the window,” I say.
She lifts both hands and presses them flat against the glass.
I get her skirt up around her hips with one hand and get my other hand between her thighs from behind.
She’s already soaked through her underwear, warm and slick under my fingers.
She pushes back against my hand before I’ve done anything useful with it.
“You’ve been thinking about this,” I say, close to her ear.
“Shut up,” she says, but her hips roll back onto my hand.
I pull her underwear aside and stroke through her slowly, two fingers, feeling her open. She drops her forehead to the glass, breath fogging it, hips moving in small circles. I push both fingers inside her and she clenches around them, a sharp sound cutting out before she bites down on it.
I work her slowly, curling my fingers forward on every stroke, my thumb circling her clit from behind.
She presses her palms harder against the glass, her knuckles going white, her breath coming in short pulls that fog the glass in front of her face.
When I add a third finger she pushes back onto my hand, drops her chin to her chest, and stops pretending she’s in control of any of this.
“Don’t stop,” she says, to the glass.
I don’t stop. I push deeper and work faster. She comes against the window with her palms squeaking down the glass an inch, shaking through it, the city spread out thirty floors below her hands.
I hold her up by the hip until she’s done.
She turns around. Face flushed to her hairline, hair wrecked, lips bitten dark. She looks at me for one second.
“Off,” she says, reaching for my belt. “Now.”
I get my belt open. She shoves my pants and boxers down together, wraps her hand around my cock, strokes once from base to tip with her thumb dragging slow over the head. My whole jaw locks.
She does it again.
“Mia,” I warn.
“Mm,” she says, and does it a third time, watching my face.
I get my hands under her thighs and lift her off the floor. She wraps her legs around my hips with a sharp exhale, hands grabbing my shoulders. I carry her to the desk, set her on the edge, reach between us to pull her underwear aside, and push inside her.
She tips her head back and the sound she makes comes from low in her chest, both hands gripping my shoulders hard. I hold still, buried to the hilt, feeling her adjust around the depth of it, her thighs tight against my hips.
She rolls her hips once, impatient.
“Move,” she says.
I pull back and drive forward and she takes it with her whole body, rocking with the thrust, legs locking tighter around my hips.
I don’t ease into it, I give her hard from the third stroke, deep and driving, the desk scraping back an inch.
She grabs my shoulders and holds on, chin tipped up, mouth open, taking every thrust and pushing her hips down to meet the next one.
I get my thumb on her clit. She jolts forward, chin dropping to my shoulder. I feel her get wetter around my cock, her hips starting to move with mine, chasing the pressure.
“Harder,” she says, into my neck.
I drive into her harder and the desk scrapes the floor an inch but we ignore it. I keep my thumb moving and drive into her deep and she starts shaking, her breath fracturing against my skin, her fingers digging into the back of my shoulders.
She comes the second time with her face in my neck, her whole body pulling tight, clenching around my cock in hard rolling waves. I drive through every second of it until her grip on my shoulders goes slack.
I pull out.
She makes a sound of protest. I turn her by the hip and she moves with me, reads it immediately, drops forward onto her forearms on the desk. She looks back at me over her shoulder, hair falling across her face.
I push inside her from behind in one stroke.
Her arms buckle, she gets them back under her, forearms flat on the desk, and I get both hands on her hips and start moving.
The angle takes me deeper and she knows it, her back arching down on every thrust, hips pushing higher to take more.
The sounds she makes now are past kept-in, small urgent things she’s stopped trying to muffle.
I can feel how close she is in the hard clench of her around my cock on every deep stroke.
I reach around her hip and find her clit.
“Reed,” she says, sharp.
“I know,” I say, and press harder.
She comes the third time with her forehead dropping to her forearms and a sound she presses into the crook of her elbow, clenching around me so hard my rhythm breaks entirely.
I drive into her twice more and follow her, hands locked on her hips, jaw tight, every muscle in my body pulling in at once and releasing in a long rolling wave that goes on longer than I expect and leaves me with my forehead dropped between her shoulder blades and my pulse in my ears.
I ease out of her slowly, feeling every inch of it, my cock slick and spent, and watch my cum start to run down the inside of her thigh.
I open the top drawer, pull out the box of tissues I keep there, and turn back to her.
I run a tissue slowly up the inside of her thigh, catching it.
She goes still under my hands, watching me do it over her shoulder.
I clean her up and drop the tissues in the bin. It occurs to me briefly that we’ve never had the conversation about protection. I assume she’s on the pill and leave it at that.
She pushes herself upright on the desk and turns around, leaning back against it as she looks at my face.
She pats my chest once. “Good meeting,” she says.
A laugh comes out of me, one exhale, and she grins at it, looking proud of herself for catching me off guard.
She steps back and puts herself together.
Smooths her skirt, tucks her blouse back in, pulls her bra straps into place in the reflection of the dark monitor.
I button my shirt, buckle my belt, find my tie from under the desk.
She collects her jacket from beside the door, shrugs into it, then picks her coffee cup up off the floor.
“Cold,” she says.
“I’ll get you another one.”
The corner of her mouth moves. She shoulders her bag, crosses to the door, and stops with her hand on the handle.
“I’ll see you at home,” she says.
“See you at home,” I say.
She goes. I listen to her cross the outer office, wait for the elevator chime, and turn back to my desk.
Walsh files on the floor. I pick them up, straighten the pages, and put them back on the corner of the desk. I sit down, pull the board update toward me, and read the first line.
A knock at the door.
“Come in,” I say, without looking up.
The door opens. Not my assistant this time. A man I don’t recognize closes it behind him, crosses to the desk, sets a manila folder down, and takes one step back.
“Compliments of Mrs. Hawthorne,” he says, and leaves before I can ask him anything.
I open the folder.
Bank statements, six months. Past addresses, four going back five years, two in Brooklyn, one in Queens, one I don’t recognize. Standard work, the kind that comes back before lunch.
Then the last page.
A medical bill in its own sealed envelope, clipped to the back. Mia’s name in a typed label on the front. A clinic address in the top corner. A date stamped eighteen months ago.