I’ve forwarded it to her executive assistant. She said, her tone dripping with dismissal. But I highly doubt. The phone on her desk emitted a sharp singular chime. A direct line. She pressed her earpiece. For a fraction of a second, the corporate mask slipped revealing naked shock. Yes, ma’am. Immediately.
She lowered her hand looking at Dean as if he had justified the laws of physics. Mr. Dean. The private elevator on the right. Floor 72. Security will escort you. The elevator ride was aggressively fast making Dean’s ears pop. The guard stood rigid beside him radiating silent hostility. When the stainless steel doors hissed open, Dean stepped into a space that felt less like an office and more like a high altitude fortress.
Floor 72 featured floor-to-ceiling windows offering a dizzying gray panorama of the city. The carpet was thick enough to swallow the sound of his heavy boots. Original intimidating abstract art lined the walls. The air smelled of bergamot and expensive black tea. At the far end behind a desk made of a single slab of raw edge walnut resting on glass block stood Sloane Hastings.
She was turned away looking out at the skyline. She wore a tailored ivory pant suit that hung flawlessly over her frame. “Leave us.” She commanded. The cadence was exactly the same as the woman in the cheap Seattle motel. But the warmth had been completely bled out of it. The guard hesitated. “Ma’am, are you certain?” “Did I stutter, Marcus? Get out.
” The doors clicked shut. The silence in the room was absolute, heavy, and suffocating. Slowly Sloane turned around. Dean’s chest tightened. 10 years had left fine lines around her stormy gray eyes and a rigid defensive set to her jaw. She looked exhausted. She looked terrifying. She looked at his worn canvas jacket, his scuffed boots, and finally his face.
A muscle feathered in her cheek. “You.” She breathed. It wasn’t a sigh of relief. It was an accusation. “Me.” Dean replied. She gripped the edge of her walnut desk, her knuckles bone white. “How did you find me? How much do you want?” The immediate jump to a shakedown stung. A hot defensive anger flared in Dean’s gut.
“I don’t want your money.” He said, taking a slow step forward. “I didn’t even know who you were until Tuesday. I was at the park with my son.” Sloane flinched at the word son. “Three little girls walked up to me.” Dean continued, his voice dropping into a harder register. “They saw my arm.
They told me their mother had the exact same tattoo.” Sloane closed her eyes. When she opened them, the vulnerability was sealed away behind a sheet of ice. “They shouldn’t have spoken to you. The nanny was fired.” “You fired a woman because your kids talked to a stranger.” “I fired her because she allowed a potential security threat to interact with my children.
” Sloane snapped. The sudden volume cracked like a whip. She stepped out from behind the desk. “Do you have any idea what my life is like? How many people try to get near them to get to me?” “I’m not a threat.” Dean said, holding his calloused hands up, palms open. “I just I needed to know.” “Know what?” She mocked bitterly.
“If the drunken mechanic you slept with 9 years ago magically turned into a billionaire?” “I’m a carpenter, actually.” Dean corrected flatly. “And no. I needed to know if I’m a father.” The air seemed to vanish from the room. Sloane stopped moving. Her defensive posture suddenly looked brittle. The silence stretched out, filled only by the faint muffled wail of a siren 50 floors below.
“They’re 9 years old.” Dean said softly. The anger drained away, leaving only the crushing weight of the truth. “We were in Seattle 9 years ago. The math isn’t complicated, Sarah.” “Don’t call me that.” she whispered. “Then tell me the truth.” Sloane walked to a sleek ivory leather sofa and sat down heavily.
She crossed her arms tight over her chest, not looking at him. “Yes. They’re yours.” The floor tilted. Dean had known it, but hearing it spoken aloud in the sterile, untouchable room made it a physical reality. Three daughters. He staggered slightly, dropping into a modern chrome chair opposite her. He rested his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his rough hands.
He smelled the sawdust on his own skin. “Why?” Dean asked, his voice muffled. “Why didn’t you tell me? Find you were” Sloane let out a short, harsh laugh. “We didn’t know each other’s last names. We had burner phones. And even if I could have tracked you down, why would I?” Dean dropped his hands, staring incredulously.
“Because I’m their father. You were a guy I slept with for a weekend to escape the fact that my father was dying and my company was bleeding millions.” She fired back. “I was 24. I was terrified. You were an escape hatch, Dean. That’s all. And when you found out you were pregnant with triplets, I dealt with it like I deal with everything else.
” Sloane lifted her chin, the CEO persona sliding back into place. “I built an empire. I provided them with a life you couldn’t comprehend. They go to the best schools. They have trust funds. Their futures are guaranteed. Dean looked around the lifeless immaculate office. He thought of his cramped apartment, the vibration of the dry cleaner downstairs, the constant knowing anxiety over grocery bills.
