The Billionaire's Heart: The Silver Cross Club, #4

ONE

Sadie

The baby had gotten fat.

Not in a bad way. Babies were supposed to be fat. But this one had been a skinny little thing when it was born, long and lanky, and it had stayed skinny for the first two months. The last time I saw it, only a week ago, Regan had been convinced that it had failure to thrive and that she was a horrible mother. That was no longer a concern, it looked like. Kid had ballooned up overnight. It had two separate fat rolls between its wrists and its elbows.

Surprise: I wasn’t much of a baby person.

I held it carefully, hands beneath its armpits, and stared at it. It stared back, a thin trail of drool running down its chin. It looked about as unimpressed as I felt.

Babies were fine. They were cute, mostly, when they weren’t funny-looking. After they learned how to smile and sit up, they could even be fun to play with, for about ten minutes. But this one was still in the newborn slug phase, what Regan called the fourth trimester. It was like a little grub: eat, poop, sleep, repeat, sometimes in a slightly different order.

He’s adorable, I told Regan. Part of friendship was knowing when to lie.

She beamed. Isn’t he? I’m so happy he’s finally gaining weight. I thought maybe I wasn’t producing enough milk, but I guess he just wasn’t ready to start growing.

The baby squirmed in my grasp and let out a tiny mewl, and I hastily returned it to Regan, who draped it over one shoulder and made some cooing noises, kissing its slimy face.

My personal feelings about babies notwithstanding, it was nice to see how much Regan adored her tiny slug creature.

No, you’re not hungry yet, she said to the baby. Oh, what a fussy little dumpling! She patted his back, and looked at me and smiled. Sorry. I feel like having a baby has killed off at least half of my brain cells. Let’s have some grownup talk.

Do they teach you how to make that voice before you leave the hospital, or is it innate? I asked.

Regan groaned and scrunched her face up. "I know, okay? It’s so embarrassing. It just happens! I can’t help myself."

Does Carter do it, too? I asked, genuinely curious.

Regan laughed, moving her hand back to support the baby’s diapered butt. He’s worse than me, she said. I’ll have to record him and send it to you.

Oh my Lord, please do, I said. I could sell it to the tabloids for eight million dollars, and never have to work again.

That bad? Regan asked, frowning at me, and I cursed myself and my big mouth. I shouldn’t have mentioned anything that Regan could construe as a complaint. I thought your boss—

I don’t want to talk about it, I said. Whatever. I’m working on it. It’s fine.

Regan gave me a skeptical look. If you say so. It’s just that you’ve been unhappy for so long, Sadie. You won’t look for a better job, you won’t leave that awful apartment, you won’t date…

This again. I gritted my teeth. Regan was my best friend, and I loved her like a sister, but she really needed to stop harping on my love life. I’m not ready to date, I said.

It’s been a year, she said. He wouldn’t want you to mourn forever.

I don’t think, I said, really annoyed now, that any of us are really in a position to say what Ben would or would not have wanted.

Regan leaned away from me slightly, eyes widening.

I sighed, and closed my eyes. That had come out sharper than I intended. She was so sensitive Sorry, I said. I’m just… I’m not ready.

Not ready for what? a voice said behind me.

I turned to see Carter, Regan’s husband, coming into the room, briefcase in hand and suit jacket slung over one arm. He must have been at the office. It was Sunday afternoon—did the man never take a day off? He smiled at me as he crossed to where Regan was sitting, and bent to kiss her on the top of her head. He brushed one hand over the baby’s downy skull. How’s that fussy baby?

Fussy, Regan said, smiling up at him. Sorry I didn’t tell you that Sadie was coming over. I didn’t think you’d be home so early.

Mi casa, et cetera, he said. He looked at me, one eyebrow cocked. What’s she hassling you about now?

Dating, Regan said, before I could open my mouth. Don’t you think it’s time?

Hmm, Carter said. Maybe you should let Sadie decide that for herself.

At last, a voice of reason. I hoped Regan would listen to him, and stop giving me the business.

Or maybe the baby would start crying, and that would be the end of it.

But instead, Regan frowned and said, I just want her to think about it.

Leave her alone, darling, Carter said. Let’s hassle her about something else. Sadie, have you quit that terrible job yet?

Oh, God, you’re ganging up on me, I said, groaning dramatically and flopping to one side on the sofa. Lord take me now. I can’t deal with the stress.

Carter laughed. Just think about it. That’s all I ask. Are you staying for dinner?

Oh, you should! Regan said to me. Caleb goes to bed early, and then we can drink wine and talk about grownup things.

I grinned. Again with the grownup talk. Regan was spending a year at home with the baby before she started law school, and it seemed like she was going a little bit stir-crazy. I didn’t blame her. Being stuck at home with a newborn sounded like an absolute nightmare.

Regan’s home wasn’t anything like my tiny apartment, though. She and Carter had recently left his penthouse in the Meatpacking District and moved to a brownstone in Chelsea. It was a shockingly unpretentious dwelling for one of the richest men in the country, but still pretty damn swanky. I didn’t think I would mind being at home all day if I got to drink coffee in my private garden every morning.

Regan’s life was basically ridiculous, like something from a movie. She and Carter met when she was working as a cocktail waitress at a high-class, trumped-up strip club. Regan had always been sort of cagey about the exact circumstances, and Carter didn’t really seem like the sort of guy who frequented nudie bars, but somehow they had made it work. They’d been married for almost three years now, and seemed happier than ever.

And of course I was thrilled for her—overjoyed for her, so happy that she had found someone who treasured her the way she deserved—but it hurt, still, even after a year, to see how much they loved each other.

I’d had that, once. That kind of love.

And then I lost it.

I didn’t want to think about it. If you’re offering to feed me and give me free wine, I am definitely down to stay for dinner, I said.

Regan beamed at me. I’m so glad, she said. Let me go change this dumpling and I’ll see what I can throw together. Carter, do you want something to drink? Marta got that Scotch you wanted to try.

Lifesaver, Carter said. He took the baby from Regan and kissed it on each fat cheek. This is a smelly baby.

He has to poop to make room for more food, Regan said, standing and moving behind the sofa to join Carter. Maybe I’ll feed him, too. How was your day? We never talk about anything except the baby, anymore.

Much better, now that I’m home with you, Carter said, bending to kiss her.

I sat and watched them talk to each other, the fond, familiar sort of conversation that flowed between lovers. Maybe Regan was right. Maybe I needed to start dating again.

It was so daunting, though, the thought of putting myself out there, going on first dates, making awkward conversation, trying to find someone whose eccentricities meshed with my own. Relationships were work, finding them and building them, and I was tired. I just plain didn’t want to. I didn’t know if I had the strength to go through all of that again.

Regan went upstairs with the baby, and Carter poured himself a drink and joined me on the sofa, loosening his tie and rolling up his shirt sleeves. You want a drink? he asked me.

I shook my head. Not that nasty Scotch you drink. I’m holding out for the wine crypt.

That was an old joke between us—Carter’s apocryphal medieval wine cellar. Carter and I weren’t friends, exactly, but we got along well, and I enjoyed talking to him. It didn’t hurt that I was basically the reason that he and Regan were still together, and he would be in my debt until the end of time.

Regan’s been hoarding a few bottles of that horrible Riesling you both like so much, Carter said. I imagine you’ll have a good evening. He sipped his drink and frowned at me. Look, I know you’re tired of hearing about this, so if you really aren’t interested, I’ll never bring it up again. You should go freelance. Your job is a waste of your talent. I know so many people who are desperate for a good designer that I can guarantee you would never be out of work. I opened my mouth to protest, and he held up one hand and said, Just think about it. We won’t talk about this any longer. I’m going to get you some wine.

Well, I said, mollified by this blatant peace offering, I guess I won’t yell at you, then.

Think about freelancing, he said. That’s my only condition.

Okay, I said. I’ll think about it.

I wasn’t willing to promise him anything more than that.

TWO

Sadie

I dragged myself into work the next day feeling like I’d been trampled by horses in the middle of the night. I couldn’t even blame the wine—Regan and Carter kept early hours, now, and I’d been home and sober by 9:00. It was just Monday, and the prospect of facing yet another week at my horrible, soul-sucking job.

Maybe I should think about going freelance. It was such a precarious existence, though. I kept in touch with some former co-workers who had jumped ship, and they were always just barely scraping by, living paycheck to paycheck. No thanks. I liked my retirement account.

It was hard to stay motivated when I worked for the Evil Empire, though. Even the building depressed me: a Brutalist monolith in Midtown. The office was on the twenty-seventh floor, but there was no view except for more skyscrapers, and my cubicle was roughly three miles from the nearest window anyway. The closest I came to nature or daylight was the artificial potted plant on my desk.

Cubicles were probably invented to crush the spirits of office workers and keep the proletariat from rising up in revolt.

I slung my bag onto my desk and sighed loudly.

Tom, my favorite co-worker, rolled his chair out from his own cubicle and gave me an amused look. Long weekend?

Not long enough, I said, the standard response. Yours?

Same, he said. Another day, another dollar. You want coffee? I’m about to go perform obeisance at the altar of shitty drip coffee.

God, please, I said. That sounds incredible. How sad was it that the bright spot in my morning was free office coffee?

He laughed and stood up. Maybe I’ll even make a fresh pot, he said. Kerry’s been here since 8, and you know she always fucks it up.

Pour it down the drain, I said. All of it. The entire pot.

I heard that, Kerry yelled from her cubicle.

Tom laughed again and headed in the direction of the break room.

I sat down and turned on my computer, opening up my calendar to see what I had scheduled for the day. Useless department meeting in the afternoon, team lunch about the new client, and of course, the appointment I’d been dreading for the past week: a mid-morning chat with my boss to review the latest concepts I’d put together.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t ready. I was; I’d had everything completed for days, now, and I knew my work was top-notch.

It was just that, well, my boss was an asshole.

Tom returned with coffee and handed me a cracked mug that read World’s Best Mom!

You’re hilarious, I told him.

Mom to tiny, adorable design concepts, ready to go make their way in the world, he said. You’re meeting with Mr. Potato Head today, huh?

Don’t remind me, I said. Our boss’s name was Steve, but we always called him Mr. Potato Head due to an unfortunate resemblance, and also the fact that he was roughly as intelligent as a potato. Not even a Yukon Gold: more like one of those really sad, lumpy baked potatoes you got at a third-rate steakhouse.

Hey, your stuff looks great, Tom said. It’s what you showed me last week, right? Yeah, it looks great. Don’t let the man get you down.

If only the man didn’t control my paychecks, I said dryly.

Tom shrugged. You know how to manage him. It looks great, though, seriously. He won’t be able to find anything to complain about.

I wasn’t convinced, but I just thanked him and turned back to my computer. I had time to make a few changes before my meeting. I wanted everything to be exactly right.

At precisely five minutes to 10, I gathered my things and went up one flight to Potato Head’s office. If I was early, he would complain that I was rudely interrupting his important business; if I was late, he would accuse me of wasting his time. I timed it so that I was waiting outside his office right on the dot of 10, when he opened his door and gestured me inside.

Sadie, right on time, he said. Good thing, too; don’t want to keep me waiting.

What did you even say in response to that? I gave him a tight smile and sat in the chair placed in front of his desk.

He ponderously lowered himself into his massive leather executive chair and folded his hands on top of his desk. So, what do you have for me?

I finished the mock-up that you asked me to do, I said, handing him a manila folder. I included a few variations on the concept, so that you’ll have a number of options to choose from. I can also easily incorporate elements of one version into any of the others, if you’d like a combination I haven’t specifically presented here.

Hmm, he said. Well, let’s take a look. He opened the folder and began working his way through.

I sat at the edge of my chair, heart pounding.

The concepts I’d mocked up were great. They were awesome. There was no way that Mr. Potato Head would be anything less than thrilled with my work.

That was what I kept telling myself, at any rate.

Hmm, he said again, and flipped to the next page.

Was that an encouraging noise or not? I couldn’t read the man to save my life, even after working for him for years. Maybe it had something to do with how he was an unpredictable, power-hungry sociopath.

Not that I disliked him or anything.

He went through the folder I’d given him one sheet of paper at a time, lingering so long over each page that I was practically vibrating with impatience by the time he closed the folder and looked up at me. Well, Sadie, he said, this is certainly… interesting.

Interesting was good, right? I sat up a little straighter.

You had very specific instructions for this project, though, and only one of these concepts meets the requirements. He frowned at me, and my heart sank. The rest of this is useless, and a waste of company time.

I felt my face flush hot with anger, and I was glad my skin was dark enough that he wouldn’t be able to tell. I fought to keep my voice steady. Actually, I did most of that on my own time, in the evenings. I understood the guidelines, but I thought that maybe it would be useful to explore a broader range of possibilities, in case—

He shook his head. I’m afraid not. I’ve spoken to you about this before, Sadie. You’re a gifted designer, but you don’t seem to understand that we have a corporate image to project. Consistent branding is the key to success. The way you keep going off-message—well, it makes me think that this just isn’t the right fit.

Cut through the manager-speak, and it sounded like he was firing me. My pulse thumped loudly in my ears. I’ll do better, I said, ignoring the pleading, desperate note in my voice. I could not afford to lose this job. I won’t make extra versions anymore. I’ll just do exactly what you tell me to, and—

It’s too late for that, he said. You just aren’t a team player. You don’t have the right mindset for this job. I’ll contact HR about your final paycheck. Please have your things out of your cubicle by the end of the day. He closed the folder and handed it to me.

I took it with numb fingers. Had he really just fired me? Me? After all of the unpaid overtime I’d put in, the pet projects I’d worked on for him at the expense of my actual job, the three major clients I’d convinced to stay with the company after they were ready to walk—all of that, and he was firing me?

I’ll be happy to give you a good reference, of course, he said.

That was the final straw. I stood up, blood boiling in my veins, and said, "You know what? Screw you. I don’t need one. Have fun with your pathetic little life."

Maybe that was petty, but I didn’t care. I was so angry I could hardly see straight, and I tripped on the stairs as I made my way back to my cubicle.

God. What was I going to do?

I had bills to pay, and absolutely zero leads on a new job.

My computer was still turned on at my desk, with my most recent revisions pulled up on the screen, glowing brightly, mocking me. I sat in my chair and stared at the screen without seeing anything.

It looked like it was time to go freelance.

How’d it go? Tom asked, breaking my reverie.

I got fired, I said. The words felt strange in my mouth. I tried again. Potato Head fired me.

There was a long pause. What?

I looked up and saw my own shock reflected in Tom’s face. He told me I’m not a team player, I said.

He’s delusional, Tom said. "He can’t have—did he really fire you?"

I’m supposed to remove all my things by the end of the day, I said. So yes.

"That’s not—he can’t do that," Tom said.

I’m afraid he can, I said. He’s the boss.

Tom blew out a slow lungful of air. Shit. What are you going to do?

Well. That was the question.

* * *

First, I decided, I was going to get drunk.

That was pretty easy to accomplish. I left the building, hauling the cardboard box with all of my things in it—my stapler, my granola bars, the pictures of the Bahamas I’d tacked to my cubicle wall—and headed for the bar down the block where we always went for happy hour. Well: where I used to go with my former co-workers. There would be no more happy hours for me.

The bar was almost empty at that time of day, which was a small mercy. I didn’t want to interact with anyone. I ordered a beer and sat at one end of the bar, my box on the stool beside me, and planned my next move.

I needed a job, but more than that, I needed a plan. I had spent the last year just going through the motions, some twilight creature who ate and worked and exercised but didn’t really live.

I thought maybe I was ready, now, to be alive again.

The problem was how best to go about resurrecting myself.

I ordered a second beer, and dug a notebook and pen from my box. I turned to a blank page and wrote SADIE’S LIFE PLAN at the top, and underlined it with a thick, dark line. I was a big fan of lists. There was usually so much stuff bouncing around in my head that the only way to keep track of it all was to write it down.

My top priority, of course, was getting a job. Find interesting work, I wrote, and underlined interesting. God, I’d turned into such a princess. There were more important things in life than having a rewarding, interesting job. Like not getting evicted. But this was my LIFE PLAN. I might as well go all out.

Go on a date. At least that would get Regan off my back.

Adopt a pet.

Stay out all night dancing. I hadn’t