Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Leif
What to Do When You Have No Defenders and No Backup
The first thing I notice when Hailey walks into my penthouse is that she hates it.
She doesn’t say she hates it, obviously. Hailey is far too skilled at feigning indifference for that. But I know her too well. I know the way her nose scrunches just slightly when she encounters something that offends her soul. I know the way her arms fold across her chest when she’s debating whether or not to roast me. I know the way her lashes flutter a little too fast when she’s trying to convince herself she’s not standing in the middle of something objectively absurd.
Right now? She’s doing all three.
I lean against the kitchen island, watching her take in the ceilings, the sweeping skyline framed by floor-to-ceiling glass, the emptiness of the space that screams, ‘billionaire villain with an affinity for monochrome.’
She turns slowly, assessing me with the kind of practiced patience that comes from years of knowing exactly who she’s dealing with.
“Leif.”
“Yes, Hailey?”
She wets her lips, choosing her words. “Did you know you live in a spy villain’s lair?”
I smirk. “That’s a new one.”
She sweeps a hand toward the towering windows, the sleek, minimalist furniture that barely qualifies as functional, and the aggressively modern kitchen that looks like it’s never been touched by actual human hands. “This is . . . wild.”
I shove my hands in my pockets, watching as she drifts toward the living area, moving with the cautious curiosity of someone afraid she might break something and be invoiced for it.
“This doesn’t feel like you,” she says softly, almost like she’s talking to herself.
I shrug. “I needed a place. A home away from Killion. This was the place.”
She gives me a long look, unimpressed. “Leif, this isn’t a place. This is an origin story. This is ‘I have a sinister plan’, and at some point, you’re going to monologue before pushing someone off the balcony—I just hope it’s not me.”
I tilt my head. “So what I’m hearing is that I need a white fluffy cat?”
She snorts. “You need a lot of furniture.”
I mean, there’s a couch. A very nice, very expensive couch that I did not pick out myself. My old living room set didn’t “fit the aesthetic”—Scottie’s words, not mine. She let me keep one of the couches, though, and it’s in my bedroom, which is the size of a starter home in most cities. Not the cramped studio apartments they have in Manhattan—more like one of those industrial lofts in Denver. The rest of the place? Minimal. A kitchen island, a few barstools, a massive dining table that has never once been used for dining.
One of the guest rooms is suited for visitors—mostly Hailey—and that’s about it.
Hailey shakes her head, exhaling like she’s mentally filing me under unsalvageable, as she usually does.
Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, she turns back toward the windows. The moment her gaze lands on whatever is beyond the glass, she freezes. Every muscle in her body locks into place, her breath hitching in her throat. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t blink. It’s as if time itself has stalled, trapping her in this singular, overwhelming moment.
And there it is. New York spills out before her, stretching in every direction—steel and glass and thousands of lives stacking on top of each other. The sky is painted in gold and soft violet, the city breathing, pulsing, alive. The balcony is framed in the distance, with its private pool that looks like it belongs at a private beach, but it’s conveniently right in this penthouse.
For a long moment, she just stands there, hands at her sides, fingers twitching like she’s holding herself back from reaching for something she’s not sure she’s allowed to have.
I know that look.
Hailey isn’t just taking in the view—she’s feeling it. Letting it soak into her bones, trying to talk herself out of wanting it too much.
She steps closer, pressing her fingertips lightly to the glass. The hesitation is still there, but I know her well enough to recognize the shift—the moment she gives in, just a little. I smile.
This.
This is why I picked this place.
Not for the obscene square footage. Not for the spy-villain aesthetic, as she likes to describe it. Nope. It was for her. Because I knew—I knew—she’d fall in love with this.
She exhales, voice barely above a whisper. “Okay. This part I get.”
My smile widens. “So, you do like it.”
Hailey exhales, eyes still locked on the skyline. “I like this part.” She waves a hand toward the view, then turns to look at the rest of the penthouse, her expression somewhere between deep contemplation and mild existential dread. “The rest of it? Jury’s still out.”
I lean against the kitchen island, crossing my arms. “What, you don’t dream of living in a high-rise apartment with an aesthetic that screams emotionally unavailable tech CEO? Wealthy trust fund man-child who has to show what he has so he forgets what he lacks?”
Hailey scrunches her nose, her lips pulling to the side in a mix of skepticism and mild disgust. “Leif, this place doesn’t even look lived in.” She gestures vaguely at the pristine, magazine-perfect interior, her eyes scanning the spotless marble counters and perfectly arranged furniture. “Have you actually spent more than five minutes here since you moved?”
I lift a shoulder. “In my defense, I just moved in and . . . well, I’ve slept here every night since then. That’s something, right?”
She levels me with a flat look. “That doesn’t count. If I opened your fridge right now, what are the odds I’d find anything besides protein shakes and expired condiments?”
I rub the back of my neck because this woman knows me too well. However, she’s wrong. All condiments expired or not, were tossed away in Arizona. Also . . . “I have a chef, George, so you’ll find whatever he prepared for today’s lunch and some snacks,” I say a little too fast and maybe arrogant.
Take that, Hailey, I win. Not sure what, but I feel like I got the upper hand here. Maybe not. Our friendship is not a competition, but if it was, she’d be winning everything.
“Oh, right, now you have a chef.” She crosses her arms, eyes narrowing like she’s mentally tallying all the things wrong with my life choices. “Did you actually pick anything in here?”
“I decided to let Scottie handle some of it, the rest . . .” I don’t tell her that the rest is up to her, like usual.
“That’s not the same as picking your own stuff, Leif.”
“I feel like it is.”
Hailey lets out a long-suffering sigh, pacing the open floor plan like she’s assessing a fixer-upper on one of those home renovation shows. “You know what this place is?” she finally says, turning to face me.
“Stunning? Sophisticated? A way to say, look I’m a responsible adult?”
“A staged photo in a real estate listing.”
I flinch. “Ouch.”
She gestures to the cavernous space around us. “Nothing in here looks like you. Where’s the personality? The evidence that an actual human being lives here? Do you even own a blanket?”
“Probably in the linen closet? I have one on my bed.”
Her eyes narrow. “A real blanket, or some overpriced ‘decorative throw’ Scottie forced on you?”
“ . . . Pass.”
Hailey shakes her head like I’m a deeply disappointing case study. “This is worse than I thought.”
I sigh dramatically. “I get the feeling you’re about to make suggestions or just go online to fix my problems. You need my credit card?”
She brightens. “Oh, absolutely.”
I nod toward the view. “And this? Should we just move to some home in Brooklyn?”
For a second, she doesn’t answer. She just looks out over the city again, something unreadable flickering across her face. Then, finally, she exhales and nods. “Hey, let’s not make rash decisions. The view stays.”
“How generous of you.”
“But,” she adds, lifting a finger, “we’re fixing everything else.”
I tilt my head. “We?”
“Yes, we . Because, clearly, you cannot be trusted to do it alone.”
I sigh, rubbing a hand down my face. “I’m regretting this already.”
She grins. “No, you’re not.”
She’s right, but I won’t say that out loud. I’m not letting her win . . . whatever this is. A few hours later, Hailey’s stuff arrives, and I realize I have made a colossal mistake. I had assumed it’d be a couple of bags. I had forgotten all the stuff we shoved in that storage room when she decided to stop leasing that tiny apartment in Queens.
There are books now, framed photos. Half a dozen blankets. A collection of random objects that defy logic but somehow make complete sense for her.
I watch in quiet horror as box after box fills the guest bedroom, my brain struggling to comprehend just how much stuff one person can own.
“We didn’t pack all this stuff into that storage unit, Hailey Bean.” I glare at her.
“Well, there are things I buy while traveling. Then, I store them when I come to visit . . . you don’t think I’m going to stop living just because I don’t have a place, right?”
Hailey, of course, is completely unbothered. She flips through a stack of books, tossing them onto my very expensive, very not-designed-for-books couch like she’s stocking a personal library.
“This one’s for you,” she says, holding up a battered paperback.
I glance over. A Guide to Not Being a Robot.
I arch a brow. “Subtle.”
She grins. “Felt appropriate. I bought it years ago, kept forgetting to give it to you.”
I roll my eyes but take the book anyway. “I think we need bookshelves.”
Hailey hums in agreement, already shifting through another box. “Yes, and maybe a library. In the office, shelves with one of those rolling ladders.”
I smirk. “So, I am a Bond villain.”
She glances around the penthouse, expression thoughtful. “No. Bond villains have personalities. You, my friend, are just a hockey player in desperate need of décor.”
“Excuse you, I’m not just a hockey player. I’m the best goalie in the league—according to some websites and numerous publications.”
“You’re my best friend. The best. And I think that’s more important—no website required to confirm the data.” She winks at me.
She’s not wrong, though. Nothing matters to me as much as she does. “You’re the best and most important,” I say, because it’s the truth.
Hailey exhales softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering there like she’s unsure of what to do with them. Her gaze shifts to the floor for a second before meeting mine again, hesitation written in the slight furrow of her brows.
“So . . . tomorrow, I have a sonogram, and I’d rather not go alone,” Hailey says carefully. Her fingers drift toward her stomach, almost like she’s reaching for something invisible, but then she stops herself. Her voice softens, like she’s bracing for rejection, and she adds, “Could you . . .?”
I don’t even let her finish. “What time?”
“Four.”
“I’ll be there.”
It’s an automatic answer. No hesitation. No second thoughts—just certainty. That’s exactly what she needs right now, someone who’ll be by her side. An adult in charge so to speak, so she can start thinking about everything that’s happening. I wonder how much she has processed yet. That she’s expecting.
Oh, fuck she’s pregnant. Hailey—my best friend, my person, the only woman I’ve ever loved—is pregnant . Obviously, it hasn’t sunk in yet. I’m probably trying to avoid it. What is that called? Oh, right, dissociation. I’m totally at the point where I’m just reacting out of need—her needs. Because if I look closely into it and I really focus on the word pregnant . . . I’ll lose my shit.
My best friend—the love of my life—is having a baby.
A baby that is not mine.
It’s not mine.
Not.
Mine.
That’s a separate crisis for another day. Right now, she needs me. And I need to keep my head on straight because she’s looking at me with those eyes—big, “ I’m about to lose my shit but not sure if I should do it, if I can do it,” eyes.
One of us has to stay focused and in control. That’ll be me.
Instead, I lean back against the counter, arms crossed, trying to act like I’m totally cool with this. “You bringing snacks to this sonogram, or am I on snack duty? Because if I’m going to be staring at a screen that’ll probably look like a blurry blimp, I need sustenance.”
Her lips twitch. There it is, a brief hint of amusement. Though it’s quickly buried under the magnitude of whatever she’s feeling.
“Forget it.” She exhales. “You’ll mock the sonogram.”
“I would never mock your blurry blimp.”
“Mm-hmm,” is all that she says, and I wish she’d tell me how she feels about all of this. The pregnancy. The father. The future she didn’t plan for. Knowing Hailey, it hasn’t completely sunk in yet, even when she was already working on a plan—which wouldn’t include me.
That’s another thing we’re going to have to discuss. I should’ve been her first call. If it wasn’t me, who did she reach out to? Probably nobody. She was hoping to hide for eighteen years and come back after she solved the issue. Someone should tell her a baby isn’t an issue . . . but how can she know that when her father made her feel like a problem after her mother died?
For now, I’ll do what I do best: show up, joke, be supportive. I’ll make sure she doesn’t feel lonely.
“You know what this means, right?” I say, tilting my head.
Her brows furrow. “What?”
I grin. “I get to be the first person to see undeniable proof that your kid has your weirdly shaped toes.”
“I don’t think you can see that right now.” She groans. “Oh, God, I don’t know why I’m here. You’re impossible.”
“Impossible to replace,” I agree.
It works. She rolls her eyes, but some of the tension in her shoulders loosens, and I’ll take that as a win.
Freaking out can wait. Overanalyzing every emotion I’ve buried for years? That’s a problem for future me. Right now, she needs me. And there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
“Go find your swimsuit, Hailey Bean. Let’s use the pool. In the meantime, I’ll call the chef so he can plan accordingly,” I state.
“I don’t need your chef nor?—”
“You might not, but the little peanut probably will,” I cut her off before she begins to protest. I tilt my head toward the stairs. “Come on, go change. You’ll give me your new list of complaints once you’ve ordered the new furniture and gotten settled.”
“That might not happen for a few days.” She pouts.
I shrug as if saying, well, tough luck. You’ll have to deal with this place, not me. “Go upstairs, and stop looking for excuses to . . . do whatever you’re trying to pull, Hailey.”