The museum trip was saved.
My heart, on the other hand, was a different story.
Chapter Eleven
RENEGOTIATION
Griffin
“Griffin,we’re running out of time. The West Games Benefit is coming soon. We need someone locked in, contract signed, a story ready to feed the press with your new fiancée,” Sam’s voice crackled through my phone. “I made an executive decision and offered Sabine the role of your fake wife.”
“You did what?” I yelled.
Sam took a defensive position. “Sabine’s perfect for this—she’s trying to start her own PR firm, needs the capital, she’s not above putting on an act to get what she wants, and she can be discreet. Plus, she’s always had her eye on you.”
“That’s not the fucking point. You went behind my back.” I gripped the phone tighter, pacing my office while my game design team filed out after a brainstorming session. “You don’t make offers on my behalf without consulting me first.”
“I did what you clearly would not do.” His tone sharpened. “You’ve been distracted all week. That nanny has you twisted up. We needed to move forward.”
Heat crawled up the back of my neck. “Jessa has nothing to do with how I am.”
“Doesn’t she?” Sam’s laugh was dry. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been checking your phone every five minutes, leaving meetings early, sending her gifts —”
“Enough.” My voice dropped to a tone that made junior executives flinch. “Did Sabine sign off on the marriage of convenience or not?”
“She said she dropped the folder off at your penthouse with the nanny. I assume she wanted to review it with you personally.”
Christ. I hung up on him. The folder was sitting there in my home, potentially opened and seen by Jessa.
I grabbed my coat and bolted for the door.
When I arrived,the penthouse was quiet.
“Theo?” I called, dropping my briefcase in the entryway.
“In here!” His voice came from his room, muffled and distracted.
I found him sprawled on his bed, controller in hand, eyes glued to the TV screen, playing video games I usually kept restricted to rewards and weekends.
“What did you do to earn this?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe.
“Chores.” He didn’t look away from the game. “Jessa made a list. I did everything on it.”
“A list?”
“Yeah. Like, organizing my hockey gear, putting away my laundry, cleaning up the kitchen after dinner. She said if Ifinished it all, I got an hour of game time.” He paused the game long enough to grin at me. “She’s cool, Dad.”
Warmth invaded my chest. Jessa had gotten my son to do chores. Voluntarily. Without threats or negotiations or the usual battle of wills.
“Where is she?”
“Dunno. Her room, maybe?”
I checked the guest room first. Empty. She wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room. Tension coiled tighter with each empty space.
I texted her: Where are you?
No response. I looked around, and didn’t see the folder anywhere.
