Chapter 133
The move hit Tracy like a slap. Her eyes flashed crimson; she spun on her heel and herded the rest of the executives toward the elevator bank, jabbing the call button like it owed her money.
“Babe, put me down–I can walk,” I insisted, trying to sound brave.
Jared’s jaw stayed locked. “Quit the hero act. You’re hurt, so behave.”
“It’s really nothing. Only a quick stretch.” I’d never twisted anything to begin with.
“Mm.” Noncommittal, classic Jared.
The next elevator dinged open. He carried me in. My cheeks went hot. This wasn’t a rom-com–getting bridal-carried through a Marriott felt ridiculous in real life.
“Let me stand. Just hold my arm,” I whispered, wriggling. He relented and lowered me gently, then anchored one big hand around my elbow.
I limped into the private dining room at half-speed, Jared glued to my side.
Tracy was out in the hallway, phone to her ear, voice sharp enough to slice bread. Couldn’t tell who was on the other end, but whoever it was, they were getting flambéed.
I tilted my head toward the noise. “Didn’t know Ms. Darwin had that kind of bite.”
Jared glanced back, shrugged. “Guess somebody pushed her buttons.”
A cold little rock dropped in my stomach. Does he think I’m the one pushing?
Tracy stalked back in, cheeks still flushed. The second she spotted Jared, though, she swapped the scowl for a smile that could sell perfume–confident, silky, the kind that said I don’t need anyone–except maybe you.
Every few seconds, her gaze flicked to Jared, wounded–puppy eyes on full display.
I watched the performance with the detachment of a bored movie critic. You used to ignore me, Trace. Let’s see how long that lasts.
Let’s be honest: Tracy’s family tree had bigger branches than mine, but she was still shopping for a sturdy trunk to lean on.
Jared–young, hot, CEO-level competent–checked every box. She wasn’t about to saddle herself with some fifty-year-old sugar daddy. She wanted the fairy tale, and Jared was Prince Charming with a balance sheet.
Only flaw in her storybook? He’d already married me, and we’d made Yvonne.
Actually, scratch that. She might genuinely adore Yvonne. Last time around, she quietly terminated a pregnancy just so my little girl wouldn’t feel replaced.
She knew how much Jared adored his daughter, and she played the long game to stay in both their good graces.
Back in my own family tree, the roots are soaked in straight-up sexism. People still mutter about “carrying on the name.”
But in Hachester, I figured that rumor about them not caring about sons was just a rumor. Then I had Yvonne, and no one blinked.
Jared’s devotion to Yvonne was absolute. When she was little, he’d fly home between meetings just to watch her nap on his chest. He’d balance spreadsheets with her curled on his lap like a sleepy kitten.
The image that still guts me: Yvonne running a fever, Jared’s eyes glassy-red, slipping out to the parking deck so none of us would see him cry.
Those razor-sharp details stacked up like Lego bricks until they built the prison of my old hopeless crush.
I hate him for it. If he doesn’t love me, why does he keep lighting these tiny, stupid fires I have to stamp out? Why can’t he just be ice-cold, give me something clean to walk away from?
But this time I’ve adjusted the lens. Yvonne carries half his DNA; doting on her is simply fatherhood doing its job. Once you label it “duty,” the magic spell snaps.
At the table, the conversation stays locked on term sheets and cap tables. I chew slowly, listening hard. One wrong bet and the whole board can flip–Monopoly money with real-life consequences.
Somehow, I found my favorite dish was within reach. Before I can lift my fork, Jared forks a piece onto my plate without missing a beat in his conversation with the CFO. Casual, automatic–like breathing.