Pregnant By The CEO by Cassandra Dee
2
Pierce
I’m late for work today. Fuck it. It’s my company and quite frankly, they’re lucky I still show up at all.
It’s not my fault, anyhow. I have a beautiful woman in my bed right now. What am I going to do, kick her out with a wing-tip up her ass? Leave her to pilfer through my things and eventually traipse out of my penthouse, as the doormen look on with amused expressions?
While she showers, I think back to last night. The gala had been a success, that was for sure. And afterwards, well, that was quite the success as well.
But frankly, my lovely visitor isn’t really my type. With her perfect blonde hair and pert little body, she certainly has a look that many men crave. I can see her teaching yoga or reminiscing about her glory days on the cheerleading squad. Something like that. I certainly respect and admire her beauty, but as I’ve learned over the years, blonde cheerleaders aren’t my thing.
Despite that, we had a good time. She certainly could keep up with me. We were on the same page about the “one night only” aspect of our tryst, which is the most important part.
So yes, I would call that a success.
The woman comes out of the shower naked, towel wrapped tightly around her skeletal body. She’s so thin, you can see her hip bones jutting out through the thick terry fabric. Yeah, this is definitely some other man’s fantasy.
But I’m a gentleman. I smile and say good morning before heading to the stove to make her an omelet, casual in my pajama bottoms. I brew a pot of coffee and offer her sugar and milk before throwing the woman a wink. Then comes the fresh orange juice, squeezed just for her. I do a bunch of considerate things, but it’s just a farce because both of us know that we’ll never see each other again.
I call two cars on my phone: one to bring her home and one to take me to work. She leaves before I do, and once the woman’s gone, I feel nothing but relief. Man, I’m getting old. Putting on my suit, I glance in the mirror. Same as always. Intense blue eyes, thick black hair and a square jaw. Yeah, it’s business as usual.
My car arrives. Damnit, it’s another rainy day. I understand the concept of April showers, but isn’t it nearly May? I watch out the window as a sea of umbrellas navigate the sidewalks and wonder where they all came from. The sidewalks are slick and gleaming, and people jostle one other as they try to get to work on time. Ah, Manhattan, where work is always first priority.
Then again, I’m used to it. I was raised in New York City, and have never lived elsewhere. It’s bizarre, isn’t it? Born and bred New Yorkers are as hard as nails, and most of us have never left this island for more than a vacation. I certainly haven’t. Nor do I want to, to be honest. The thought of going somewhere where there’s nothing but fields for miles around gives me the shakes.
The car pulls up to a tall office building, and I let myself out before striding into the marble lobby. Various people nod my way, with greetings of “Hello Mr. Lane” and “Good morning, sir.” Obviously, no one mentions that it’s nearly mid-morning and that I’m late.
After all, I own this outfit and their paychecks have yours truly’s signature at the bottom. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, right? Once the elevator whooshes all the way up, my receptionist jumps up to get me a black coffee and informs me that there’s a marketing meeting at three that I might want to pop in on. What would I do without Janelle? With a sincere thank you, I head into my office and close the door.
Man, this is the life. I settle into my desk, leaning back with my hands crossed behind my head. Rain beats against the window and I can still look out and see the sea of umbrellas, albeit much smaller, like little moving dots on a giant grid.
What do we have today? This morning, I’m pleased to note that there are three newspapers on my desk. I nod in appreciation. Nice one, Mark. I’d mentioned in passing yesterday that I liked to peruse a variety of news sources, and my assistant picked up on that right away. Mark’s been with me for two years, and the man still manages to come up with new things to make my life easier. A real life saver, that guy.
Sipping my coffee, I idly pick up the top paper, Two One Two, and automatically open up to the business section. But when I lift up the paper, a section slides out of its fold and flutters to the ground. With a grunt, I reach under my desk to retrieve it. It’s the Style insert; well, there’s something I never read. As I tuck it back into place, something catches my eye. There’s a headshot of a woman, probably no bigger than a stamp, but the air rushes out of my chest because in this photo, she’s absolutely gorgeous.
She has...well, she has what the woman from last night was missing. This woman in the photo seems to be full of life and vivacity, with a radiant smile and curly brown hair. It’s a huge contrast to the dead fish from last night with the hollows under her eyes and spackled on make-up. I glance at the beautiful reporter’s name. Casey Henderson, Journalist.
The woman has a wide smile that exudes warmth and humor with a devilish glint of hidden mischief in her eyes, and I just can’t get over her wild curls. I wish I could transform the black and white photo into color just to see what that hair looks like in person. It looks like a deep chestnut color, maybe with auburn highlights. Her eyes tease me, and I can almost see her licking those pouty pink lips.
Charmed by her beauty, I begin to read her column, something called Corner Chat. It seems to be an advice column about problems of the heart, which isn’t usually my thing, I admit. But curiosity gets the best of me, and my eyes scan the page.
The first letter is unremarkable. A man secretly (and pathetically, if you ask me) is in love with his brother’s fiancée. But Casey Henderson’s response is impressive, and I’m surprisingly moved by her compassionate but firm reply. She tells the man that she understands his feelings of jealousy and desire, but urges him not to act on his feelings. “Someone better for you is out there waiting to meet you,” she’s written. I like that.
In the next letter, some girl is crying about a guy who dumped her. He wasn’t the good guy she thought she knew, she’s heartbroken, yada yada yada. All women in Manhattan say this.
I’m scanning the column to get a sense of Casey’s writing style, but then the third letter catches my eye. What the fuck? I see the word “ghost,” and then the words “diamond bracelet.” Oh fuck. Just my goddamn luck.
Frozen, I stop reading. This letter was written by Maria. Damnit. Maria’s not exactly an eloquent writer, but she also made our tryst sound so bad, when it really wasn’t. And since when was she ever my girlfriend? When were we ever in a relationship? What a liar. Besides, it’s a diamond bracelet for crying out loud. I’m supposed to feel guilty for giving her a lovely present? Oh, I’m so sorry for giving you an outrageously expensive parting gift. I am such an asshole.
Heart pounding, I begin to read Casey’s response. Hopefully she’s on the same page as me.
Dearest DANAGBF,
I am positively incensed for you. Before I launch into my diatribe, I just wanted to say I’m sorry that somebody put you through this because clearly this man is a misogynist. Worse than that. He’s a pig, full stop.
I stop reading. This is bad. I throw the newspaper to my desk, suddenly sweating, while buzzing Janelle.
“Yes, Mr. Lane?”
I clear my thoughts and attempt to sound casual.
“Have I received any er, packages this week? Did any of them contain a diamond bracelet?”
There’s a confused silence.
“Janelle?”
“Sir, um, is that code for something? I don’t understand.”
“No, not a code. Did I receive a bracelet?”
“No, no bracelets,” she says, utterly puzzled.
“Thanks, Janelle.”
Okay, so Maria hasn’t sent the gift back then. But this paper was only published a few days ago. Perhaps it’s still in the mail.
Bracing myself, I go back to the column and wince as I continue reading. Wow, this Casey woman is relentless and I can almost feel her nails as she rips into me.
This “man” is clearly unfit for being in any sort of relationship. It sounds like his only true love is money and he will forever use things to make up for his shortcomings.
You say this man was successful, but to me, he is far from it. This man is a true failure. Just because he can afford to send his assistant to do his dirty work does not make him anything other than a coward and a poor excuse for a male human being. He behaved like a spoiled child. Believe me, darling, you have dodged a very fancy and well-disguised bullet.
My advice? If you want to send the bracelet back, then send it back. If you want to keep the bracelet, by all mean, keep it. Hell, you could even sell it. Use the money to go visit your family and friends. Who needs him to be happy?
At the end of the day, I hope you do whatever makes you feel comfortable. I wish you all the best in the future. I will be thinking of you and this heartless bastard for a while.
Yours truly,
Casey aka The Corner Chat Advice Lady
My heart slams against my chest. I feel almost calm with fury.
Who the fuck does this woman think she is!? She doesn’t even know me or who I am but she can call me a failure and criticize my actions while she’s at it? She doesn’t even know the whole story. This is libel. I can’t believe this is happening. I cannot believe I thought this Casey Henderson person was beautiful, when actually, she’s a ruthless witch. And I hate witches with a vengeance.
Seething, I snap the paper shut and pace my office before grabbing my briefcase and stalking out to the elevator. Who the hell does this woman think she is? I hit the first floor running, almost panting with anger. My long legs eat up the sidewalk, plowing through clusters of confused tourists, thoughts racing. How dare this stranger make all of these assumptions about me?
First of all, Maria pursued me. Intensely. She wasn’t exactly shy about it either, leaving me messages, emails, and even standing outside my building once or twice. So what the hell? It’s not like I was some monster who lured her into my lair. If anything, she’s the stalker.
Second, Maria and I were never exclusive. For God’s sake, we’d only even been on four or five dates total. She was never my girlfriend, and we never even had the “define the relationship talk.” So what the hell? Clearly, this Casey Henderson person is ready to pass judgment when she knows nothing about the actual situation.
This advice columnist is obviously off her rocker, and a poor journalist to boot. She completely crossed the line professionally, not to mention personally. Because I’m hurt, I really am.
But fine. When I was a kid, my dad told me that only cowards hide behind the written word. He told me that anybody who couldn't say those same words to my face weren’t just cowards, they were flat-out wrong.
So yeah, let’s see if Casey Henderson can speak the truth when confronted with power. Let’s see how her bravado holds up once she’s actually met billionaire Pierce Lane … because the curvy brunette’s going to get a hand on that curvy bottom if I have anything to do with it.