Sneak Peek
Single Dad's Secret Baby
SIENNA
I push through the revolving doors and the cold air hits me—too sterile, too polished, everything about this place designed to make you feel small if you don't belong. Which I don't. Not really. Not according to the voicemail Dad left at seven this morning: My office. Nine sharp. Don't be late.
No explanation. No context. Just the tone that says I've disappointed him again.
I scan the marble expanse, looking for the elevator bank, and that's when I see him.
Sebastian Whitlock. Senior associate. Dad's golden boy. The man who's made it his personal mission to remind me I'm a liability every time we're in the same room.
He's across the lobby, charcoal suit perfectly tailored, tie knotted with the kind of precision that probably took him three tries. His dark hair falls over his forehead like he's been running his hands through it, and there's tension in his jaw that I recognize even from twenty feet away.
He sees me at the exact same moment.
Our eyes lock. His mouth tightens.
Great.
I cross toward the elevators, heels clicking on marble, and he does the same. We arrive simultaneously, both reaching for the call button. His hand gets there first.
"You're late," I say in a sing-song voice, because I can't help myself.
"I'm not late." His voice is clipped, British accent sharpening the consonants. "The meeting's at nine."
"It's eight fifty-seven, Bas."
His eyes flash. "Don't call me that."
I smile sweetly. "Why not? It suits you."
"It's Sebastian. Or Whitlock, if you're feeling formal. Which you should be." He presses the button again, harder, like that'll make the elevator arrive faster. "We're not friends, Sienna."
"Trust me, I'm aware."
The elevator dings. The doors slide open.
We step inside together, and suddenly the space feels half the size it should be. I move to one side, he moves to the other, and I catch the scent of his cologne—cedar and bergamot, with something subtle underneath.
I'm annoyed at myself for noticing. For cataloging the way his suit fits across his shoulders, the way his cufflinks catch the light, the fact that he's watching the floor numbers like they're the most fascinating thing in the world.
Anything to avoid looking at me.
The doors close. Silence fills the space. The kind that has weight.
I should leave it alone. I know I should.
"So," I say. "Important meeting this morning?"
He doesn't look at me. "I wasn't aware I needed to explain myself to you."
"Just making conversation."
"Don't."
"Wow. Charming as ever."
He finally turns, and I get the full force of his gaze—sharp, cold, calculating. The kind of look that would make most people back down.
I don't.
"You're wearing that?" he asks, eyes flicking down to my dress, then back up too quickly. Like he caught himself.
I glance down at the emerald wrap dress I picked specifically because it makes me feel confident. "What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing. If you're attending a cocktail party." His tone is flat. "This is a law firm, not a social event."
Heat crawls up my neck. "Good thing I'm not a lawyer, then."
"Clearly."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you don't take anything seriously." He shifts his weight, straightening his already-straight tie. "Including appropriate workplace attire."
I laugh. It comes out sharper than I mean it to. "You're really going to lecture me about taking things seriously? You're a corporate robot in a twelve-hundred-dollar suit who probably irons his boxer briefs."
His jaw ticks. "Better than being professionally unemployed."
The words land exactly where he meant them to. Hard and low.
"At least I have a personality," I shoot back. "When's the last time you did something that wasn't color-coded in your calendar?"
"When's the last time you did something that didn't end up on Page Six?"
We're standing closer now. I didn't realize we'd moved.
The space contracts around us. His jaw is tight. Mine is too, probably. I turn to study the emergency certificate on the wall instead of his face.
This is a mistake.
I tell myself it's anger. Just anger.
Six years of firm holiday parties and dinners where Dad parades Sebastian around like the son he actually wanted. Six years of polite nods and sharp exchanges that somehow never land the killing blow.
I tell myself I gravitate toward these moments because annoying him is entertaining.
I don't examine it deeper than that. I can't.
"Twelfth floor," the automated voice announces.
We both blink. Step back.
"Wait," I say slowly. "You're going to twelve?"
His expression shifts—confusion, then realization. "Grant's office."
"Yeah. Dad's office." My stomach drops. "Why are you—"
"Why are you—"
We stare at each other.
He didn't know I'd be there. I didn't know he was summoned.
Why would Dad want both of us?
The bickering suddenly feels hollow. The sparring, pointless. At least when we're fighting, I know where I stand. This—this unease crawling up my spine—is so much worse.
The doors slide open.
Dad's assistant, Margaret, is waiting. Mid-fifties, impeccably dressed, a woman who's seen everything and is impressed by nothing. Her expression when she sees us together says one thing clearly: brace yourselves.
"Ms. Carlisle. Mr. Whitlock." She gestures toward the glass-walled office at the end of the hall. "He's ready for you."
Sebastian moves first, all controlled grace and perfect posture. I follow, pulse hammering, dress suddenly feeling too bright, too frivolous, exactly like he said.
I hate that he's in my head.
Margaret opens the door. We step inside.
And I see it immediately.
The video. Playing on the massive screen mounted to the wall behind Dad's desk.
Me, in a different dress, at the Hawthorne Foundation fundraiser three nights ago. Launching myself at someone, hands shoving, voice raised. Security grabbing my arms. The crowd watching, phones out, recording everything.
My name is trending in the caption. Comments scroll past too fast to read, but I catch the gist: unhinged, entitled, unstable.
It looks bad.
It looks so bad.
But the video doesn't show everything. Nobody started filming until security started to grab me. If they had just seen the thirty seconds beforehand, it would explain everything.
They kept out the part that mattered.
"Sit." Dad's voice cuts through the room like a blade.
We sit.
Grant Carlisle stands behind his desk, hands braced on the polished surface, looking like he hasn't slept. There are shadows under his eyes I've never seen before, but his voice is steady. Controlled.
He looks at me the way he's looked at me since Mom died—like I'm a problem he doesn't know how to solve.
"Do you have any idea," he says slowly, "how many calls I've fielded in the last seventy-two hours?"
I open my mouth.
"That was rhetorical." He taps the screen, pausing the video on the worst possible frame—me mid-shove, face twisted in fury. "The Hawthornes are threatening to pull out of the deal. Twenty million dollars, Sienna. Gone. Because you couldn't control yourself for one evening."
"Dad, that's not what happened—"
"I don't care what happened." His voice rises. Sharp. Controlled. Final. "I care what everyone saw. What everyone believes."
"The video doesn't show everything—"
"The video shows enough!" He slams his hand on the desk. The sound cracks through the room. "Donors are whispering. Clients are asking questions. The press is calling this a 'meltdown.' Do you understand what that does to this firm's reputation? To my reputation?"
My throat burns. "If you would just let me explain—"
Sebastian interrupts. His voice is calm, professional, directed entirely at Dad. "Sir, the timeline for the Hawthorne meeting—should I push it to tomorrow?"
I turn to stare at him.
He doesn't look at me. His focus stays locked on my father, expression neutral, hands folded in his lap like we're discussing quarterly projections.
He's choosing the firm. Choosing Dad.
Of course he is.
The bickering in the elevator suddenly feels like a lie. A game I was playing alone.
"No." Dad straightens, composure sliding back into place like armor.
"The meeting stays as scheduled. We need to contain this before it gets worse.
" He looks at me, and there's no warmth there.
No recognition that I'm his daughter, not just another problem to manage. "Which brings us to consequences."
My stomach knots.
"You're cut off. Financially. Effective immediately."
The words hit like a physical blow. "What?"
"Credit cards, cancelled. Allowance, suspended. Driver, gone. I’m keeping the car and apartment for now, but don't get comfortable." He ticks off each point on his fingers. "You want to act like a child? Fine. But you'll learn what the real world looks like without a safety net."
"Dad, please—"
"You'll also report to Mr. Whitlock daily as assistant support. Filing, research, whatever he needs. You'll stay out of trouble, you'll learn what actual work looks like, and you'll prove you can be trusted before I even consider reinstating your access."
Sebastian shifts almost imperceptibly beside me.
I catch the movement from the corner of my eye—a flicker of something crossing his face. Annoyance? Reluctance? Interest?
Then it's gone. Replaced by that neutral mask he wears so well.
"Yes, sir," Sebastian says quietly.
Not a protest. Not a question.
Just acceptance.
"Good." Dad's gaze stays on me. "You have one job, Sienna. Don't make this worse. Cooperate with Whitlock. Show up. Do the work. And for God's sake, stay away from the press, stay away from the Hawthornes, and stay away from anything that even resembles a scandal."
I want to scream. Want to throw something. Want to make him listen, really listen, to what actually happened that night.
But his expression is stone. And Sebastian's sitting there like a sentinel, silent and complicit.
I'm alone in this room.
I've always been alone in this room.
"Fine." The word comes out flat. Defeated.
"Good. You start today. Whitlock will brief you on expectations." Dad dismisses us with a wave of his hand, already reaching for his phone. "Close the door on your way out."
We stand. Move toward the door in silence.
My hands are shaking. I ball them into fists so no one sees.
We're halfway down the hall when Sebastian stops. Turns.
He's holding a stack of files—where he got them, I don't know. Probably pulled them out of thin air with the same efficiency he does everything else.
He holds them out.
"If you get restless," he says evenly, "try not to improvise a scandal."
I take the files. Meet his eyes.
Gray. Stormy. Unreadable.
I don't blink.
"Game on, Bas."
A muscle jumps in his jaw at the nickname.