“Thank you for calling back.I’m so sorry to say that Mia vomited in the playroom this morning.She’s not doing well, the poor thing.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my back against the marbled wall in the foyer."Is she running a fever?"
"Low grade.She’s okay for now, but according to our policy, she needs to be picked up.”
Of course she did.Because when you're barely treading water, life loves to hand you a fucking anchor.
"Okay," I managed, my voice steadier than I felt.“We’ll pick her up as soon as we can."
The line went dead, and I immediately scrolled to Preston's contact.TheweI referred to barely existed; sure, Mia had a father, Preston, but you wouldn’t have known it based on how much he showed up in her life.But I needed him today.I couldn’t bail on my third day of a new job, much less when Brenda already watched me like she was just waiting for me to skulk into the shadows.
My daughter's father picked up on the fourth ring, his voice already heavy with irritation.
"Clara, I'm in the middle of—"
"Mia's sick.I need you to pick her up from daycare."
A pause."Can't.I've got back-to-back meetings until six."
"Preston, please.I just started this job three days ago.If I leave now—"
"Then don't leave.Figure it out."The line went dead.
Rage unfurled within me.I wanted to hurl my phone at the wall, scream until my throat went raw.He’d been the most absent, disinterested father from the beginning yet still had managed to finagle partial custody in his bid to avoid paying child support.Which meant I truly did everything on my own with no financial support to speak of.I balled my fists, trying to keep myself from spiraling.A few tears squeaked out of the corner of my eyes as I swallowed my frustration.And then I fired off a desperate text:Your daughter is sick and needs her father.One time, Preston.Please.
I composed myself, forcing myself to continue with my shift while I figured out a plan.Or at least a way to badger Preston into finally acting like a father.I hurried back to the cargo van, scooping up the tray I’d conveniently forgotten, a handful of aprons, and anything else that we might need.As I made my way back up in the elevator, my mind was working overtime trying to figure out potential backup plans.I could ask my best friend Zoey to pick up Mia, but that would only work if she wasn’t working today too.I could threaten Preston.I could call Preston’s mother and beg.I could see if there were any teleportation scientists in attendance at this function and ask them for a beta trial of their technology.Or I could beg Brenda for forgiveness, promising her it wouldn’t happen again, even though I knew it certainly would.
I bit my bottom lip as the doors opened, revealing a sleek corporate space.In the distance, I could see a bustling meeting room and a few of my black-shirted ilk.Everything was marble and chrome and the kind of understated luxury that screamed money without having to say a word.
As I strode toward the room, I passed the reception desk.There, etched in elegant letters across the front, were two words that made my breath freeze in my lungs: NIGHTLY DEVELOPMENTS.
The aluminum pan I was carrying slipped from my suddenly nerveless fingers.It clattered to the floor with a sound like thunder, sending echoes bouncing off the pristine walls.
"Jesus Christ, Clara!"Brenda hissed, stepping out of the meeting room.Her gaze darted around the hall, looking for observers."I told you not to drop anything!"
But I barely heard her.My vision tunneled as memories crashed over me like a tidal wave.Ice-blue eyes.Rough hands.A voice like whiskey and promises.The taste of expensive gin and poor decisions.
Nash Nightingale owned Nightly Developments.
The man who'd given me the most incredible night of my life four years ago…before he kicked me out of the penthouse suite like I was nothing.
The man I'd lied to about everything—my name, my job, my entire existence.
I bent to retrieve the fallen pan, my hands shaking as Brenda continued her lecture about professionalism.In the meeting room, the rest of the catering crew had almost fully set up the spread for the grand opening celebration.Banners hung from the ceiling announcing Nightly Developments' new Wall Street office location.Champagne flutes sparkled on pristine white tablecloths.
All the pieces were clicking together.This was Nash's moment.His triumph.
And I was here to serve drinks and clear plates while trying not to have a complete mental breakdown.
“Party is on in five,” Brenda said, shooing us into position.“Get your smiles ready.I’ll handle replenishment.Clara, what did I say about smiles?”
I smoothed my black uniform and lifted my head, my muscles remembering the practiced grace required for this job.I could do this.I'd been surviving on scraps and determination for three years—I could serve champagne to my former one-night stand without completely losing my shit.
It wasn’t long before men and women in expensive clothing filtered into the room, clustering around high-top tables, their conversations a low hum of business deals and market speculation.Nobody even looked our way.We were truly invisible.I took the opportunity to scan faces, desperate to see Nash.I recognized some faces from newspapers and financial websites—the kind of people who shaped the city's skyline with a signature on a check.
I wove between the groups, offering champagne and a smile that Bitchy Brenda would be proud of.My phone buzzed in my pocket—probably a response from Preston letting me know he had ten valid excuses why he couldn’t be a father again today.When I’d emptied my tray of champagne flutes, I tucked the tray under my arm and snuck a peek at my phone.
PRESTON:Not happening today.You’ll figure it out.
