It's torture.
My phone buzzes, and I snatch it up so fast I nearly knock over my coffee.
It's just Michael, confirming our three o'clock. I set the phone down harder than necessary.
"Everything all right, Mr. Cross?"
I look up. Joan, my assistant, is standing in the doorway with a concerned expression. She's worked for me for six years and has seen me through the divorce and countless high-stakes negotiations.
"Fine," I say. "Just waiting on some important news."
Her expression shifts to something knowing. "Would this have anything to do with the young woman you’ve been spending quite a bit of time with lately?"
I should have known Joan would notice. She manages my calendar down to every minute detail. Very little escapes her attention.
"Possibly," I admit.
"Well, I hope the news is good." She sets a fresh cup of coffee on my desk—the third one this morning. "And Mr. Cross? Don’t forget you have the Bellmore Charity Luncheon at noon."
Shit. I'd completely forgotten.
The Bellmore Luncheon is one of those mandatory social obligations that comes with my net worth and public profile. A room full of Manhattan's elite, writing checks for causesthey'll forget about by dessert, all while networking and social positioning under the guise of philanthropy.
I hate these things.
"Can I skip it?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"You're receiving an award, Mr. Cross. It would be noted if you didn't attend." Joan's tone is gentle but firm. "The car will be ready at eleven-thirty."
I nod, resigned. At least it'll distract me from obsessively checking my phone.
After Joan leaves, I force myself to actually read the Henderson contract. Make notes in the margins, flag sections for revision, prepare for this afternoon's meeting like the professional I'm supposed to be.
But my mind keeps drifting.
To Emma, sitting across from Lawrence Vance, her laptop open in front of her, explaining her vision with a spark in her eyes.
To the way she felt in my arms last night, her body soft and warm against mine, her breathing evening out as exhaustion finally claimed her.
To the exhilarating reality that in twenty-four weeks, we're going to be parents.
The magnitude of it still hits me at random moments, stealing my breath. I'm going to have another chance at this. Another chance to be the father I wasn’t the first time around.
And this time Emma will be beside me, not Victoria with her calculated manipulation and constant undermining.
This time, I'm going to get it right.
There’s no other option.
The Bellmore Luncheon is held at the Plaza, in one of those ornate ballrooms that drips with old money and even older traditions. Crystal chandeliers, gilded mirrors, tables draped in ivory linens and set with more silverware than any one person could possibly need.
I arrive to find the room already half-full, Manhattan's elite clustered in small groups, champagne flutes in hand despite the fact that it's barely past noon. I recognize most of the faces—fellow developers, hedge fund managers, tech billionaires who've relocated to the city. The usual suspects.
"Grant! There you are."
I turn to find Thomas Bellmore himself approaching, hand extended. He's seventy-something, silver-haired, the founder of a pharmaceutical empire who now spends his time throwing lavish charity events and collecting awards for his generosity.
"Thomas." I shake his hand. "Beautiful event, as always."
