Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
DEAN
My phone almost never rings anymore.
Brady filters nearly everything before it ever reaches me, and anyone who knows me well enough to have my personal number usually texts.
So, when Aubrey’s name flashes across my screen in the middle of a budget meeting, every instinct tells me something is wrong.
I don’t even excuse myself.
“I’m sorry,” I say, already reaching for my phone. “I need to take this.”
Three executives stare at me as I step into the hallway, but I barely notice them.
“Aubrey?” I answer quickly.
“Hey.” Her soft voice comes through the receiver.
It doesn’t sound scared or frantic. But it is missing the lightness that’s become so familiar over the last month.
The knot in my stomach tightens.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
There’s a pause. I hear a faint rustling through the speaker, followed by the quiet rhythm of someone shushing a baby.
“I think so.”
My feet begin pacing outside the conference room. “What happened?”
“I don’t want you to panic.”
A humorless laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “You’re already too late.”
“I think Liana might be coming down with something.”
The hallway suddenly feels much too warm.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s been fussier than normal all morning.”
I close my eyes, leaning one hand against the wall outside the conference room.
“She didn’t finish her nap, which isn’t like her.”
I can picture it immediately.
Liana usually wakes from naps, stretching both tiny arms over her head before flashing that gummy little smile she’s recently discovered. The thought of her crying instead twists something deep in my chest.
“I picked her up after her bottle and noticed she felt warmer than usual,” Aubrey continues. “Then I started hearing a little congestion.”
My heart begins pounding. “Congestion?”
“Just in her chest.”
My heart is now racing. “Can she breathe?”
“Yes.”
I pull at the tension in my neck. “Is she struggling?”
“No.”
“Is she—” I begin, but she cuts me off.
“Dean.” She says my name gently, the same way she does when I’m spiraling over something at work. “She’s breathing just fine.”
I force myself to inhale, then exhale. “What have you done so far?”
“I ordered a thermometer.”
“I don’t have one?”
She ignores my original question. “I also ordered infant acetaminophen.”
Of course she did. She’s already thinking three steps ahead while I’m still trying to process the fact that my daughter has a fever.
“When does it get there?”
“They said about twenty minutes.”
I glance through the conference room window. Charts still cover the screen while people wait for me to come back.
I don’t even hesitate. “I’m coming home.”
She sighs. “You don’t have to.”
“I’m already leaving.”
“Dean—”
“I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
I end the call before she can argue. For half a second, I simply stand there, staring at the dark screen of my phone.
Three months ago, I didn’t even know Liana existed.
Now the thought of her feeling miserable makes it impossible for me to think about anything else.
I push back into the conference room. Every conversation immediately stops.
Brady looks up first. He knows.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Liana’s sick.” The words feel strange, coming out of my mouth.
Without another question, Brady closes his notebook.
He nods. “I’ve got everything here.”
“I’ll reschedule this afternoon,” I tell everyone.
“You don’t have to worry about work.”
I nod back, grateful I hired someone who doesn’t need an explanation.
“Call me if you need anything.”
I don’t bother with my office. My laptop stays on the conference table. My jacket remains draped across my chair. Nothing matters except getting home.
Every red light between Midtown and the penthouse feels personal.
I check the navigation three times even though I know the route by heart.
Traffic crawls.
Louis glances at me in the rearview mirror. “You okay, Mr. Ledger?”
“My daughter’s sick.”
His expression immediately softens. “I’m sorry.”
I nod. It’s all I can manage.
I spend the rest of the drive staring out the window, my knee bouncing so hard that it rattles against the leather seat.
Rationally, I know babies get sick. I’ve read enough parenting books over the past three months to know fevers happen.
Knowing that doesn’t stop every possible worst-case scenario from marching through my head.
By the time the elevator reaches the penthouse, my pulse is hammering.
The doors slide open.
“Aubrey?”
“We’re in here.” Her voice floats from the living room.
I find her sitting on the couch with Liana tucked against her chest.
My daughter barely lifts her head when I walk in. That alone steals the breath from my lungs.
Normally, she kicks the second she hears my voice and reaches for my tie before I’ve even crossed the room.
Now she simply blinks up at me with tired eyes.
“Hey there, Peanut.”
I kneel beside the couch, brushing the back of my fingers against her forehead.
“She’s warm,” I say. “Not burning, just … feels warmer than she should be.”
“I know,” Aubrey says quietly. “I thought the same thing.”
“When did she stop smiling?”
“This afternoon.”
I look at her red little cheeks, and it feels like a dagger to my chest. “Has she eaten?”
“She finished most of her bottle.”
“Most?”
“A little less than normal.”
I nod, filing away every detail even though I have absolutely no idea what any of it means.
The buzzer sounds, letting us know there is a delivery waiting downstairs.
“The thermometer and medicine,” Aubrey says.
She stands carefully, placing Liana into my arms before hurrying toward the entryway. I settle Liana against my chest. She lets out a tiny whimper before resting her cheek against my shoulder.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, rubbing slow circles across her back. “Daddy’s here.”
A few moments later, Aubrey returns, carrying a small pharmacy bag.
“They’re fast.” She smiles faintly. “I might have paid for priority delivery.”
I blink. “You thought of that?”
“I wasn’t sure how worried I should be.”
She kneels beside the coffee table, opening the box before reading the instructions twice and turning the thermometer on.
“You’ve done this before?”
She glances up. “No, but I’ve seen neighborhood moms do it.”
Something inside me eases just enough to take a full breath.
Good.
One of us knows something about what we’re doing.
Liana squirms weakly as I help position her head so Aubrey can get a reading.
The room falls completely silent. Even the soft music that usually fills the apartment is gone.
The only sound is the faint electronic countdown in Aubrey’s hand.
Beep.
She pulls it away and studies the screen. Long enough that my stomach drops.
“What does it say?”
She turns it toward me. “One hundred.”
I stare at the numbers.
One hundred. I know that’s high, but not as high as it could be.
“That’s a fever.”
Aubrey nods. “It is.”
I look between the thermometer and my daughter.
For a few seconds, neither of us moves. The thermometer rests forgotten in Aubrey’s hand while I continue staring at Liana, searching her face for … I don’t even know what.
Some sign that she’s okay or that she isn’t.
She shifts against my chest with a sleepy little whimper before nuzzling closer, her warm cheek settling against the collar of my dress shirt.
She’s always loved falling asleep like this. Usually, I love it too. Today, it only reminds me that she’s warmer than she should be.
I brush my lips across the top of her head.
Aubrey quietly sets the thermometer on the coffee table before kneeling in front of the pharmacy bag she carried in from the entryway.
The plastic crinkles softly as she searches through it. It’s such an ordinary sound. One I’ve heard a hundred times when she’s unpacking groceries or putting away diapers.
Today, it somehow feels unbearably loud.
She pulls out the tiny bottle of infant acetaminophen and turns it over in her hands, carefully reading every line of the label.
Not because she doesn’t know what she’s doing, but because she wants to be absolutely certain.
I admire that about her.
“What do we do now?” I ask quietly.
She doesn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she finishes reading the dosage chart before looking back at me.
“We’re going to bring her fever down.” Her voice is calm and steady like she’s talking about making dinner instead of caring for a sick baby. “Then we watch her.”
I blink. “That’s it?”
A small smile touches her lips. “For right now.”
I look down at the bottle in her hand.
It’s tiny, maybe three inches tall.
Somehow, that little bottle is supposed to make my daughter feel better. It doesn’t seem possible.
Aubrey notices the uncertainty on my face almost instantly. “Dean.”
I meet her eyes.
“Babies get sick.”
“I know.” The words leave my mouth automatically.
The truth is … I don’t know. Not really.
I’ve spent the last three months reading every parenting book I could get my hands on.
None of them explained what it would feel like when your daughter didn’t smile at the sound of your voice. Or how quickly your imagination could convince you something terrible was happening because she had skipped one nap.
Aubrey shifts closer until she’s kneeling right in front of me. “Can I have her for a minute?”
I hesitate. Not because I don’t trust Aubrey, but handing Liana over somehow feels like admitting I can’t fix this myself.
I carefully transfer her into Aubrey’s arms.
The movement wakes Liana just enough that she lets out a tired little cry.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Aubrey whispers, gently rocking her. “We’re going to help you feel better.” Her voice changes when she talks to Liana.
Liana settles almost immediately.
I watch Aubrey draw the medicine into the tiny syringe before gently brushing it against Liana’s lower lip.
“There you go.”
Liana makes an adorably offended face. Her tiny nose wrinkles while most of the medicine disappears. A little dribbles down her chin. Aubrey catches it with a burp cloth she somehow already draped over her shoulder.
“When did you get so good at this?” The question slips out before I realize I’m asking it.