Pretending She's Mine

My phone beeped. It was my assistant Mickey. She called at 8:30 every morning, like clockwork. She was punctual and meticulous. I trusted her about as much as I trusted anyone. She was the first person I hired when I started Westbrook Securities.

“Yes?” I held the phone to my ear.

“Good morning, Mr. Westbrook.” Her voice was warm, but firm.

“Mickey. What do you have for me?”

“I synced today’s schedule. Are there any changes? Should I add anything for you?” she asked.

“No. Nothing was missed.” It never was.

“Ok. I’ll confirm all your meetings and upload the finalized version for you.”

“Thank you.”

I sat on the couch. The TV ran in the background. The chatter of the broadcasters made my penthouse feel a little less sterile. A little less isolated.

It was bound to feel that way. Everything inside was made of steel and reinforced glass. It was a fortress. I had personally supervised the installation of Westbrook Securities’ latest tech. It was impenetrable. I used the penthouse to test all our prototypes. If it didn’t meet my standards, it never moved beyond research and development.

I glanced at the screen as the anchors ran through back-to-school hacks for parents. They clutched cups of coffee and grinned, showing off their white teeth. I muted the TV.

“Is there anything else, sir?” She asked the same questions each morning. It wasn’t a mandatory script, but Mickey knew I liked consistency. I valued productive habits. I admired routines and people I could count on.

“There aren’t room for adjustments, so if something pops up today, you’ll need to fit it in later. You’ve done an excellent job of managing my time today, as usual.” It was a compliment.

“Of course, Mr. Westbrook. There will be no changes. The schedule is locked.”

“You have the information on Avajean’s return?” I pressed. I had already asked yesterday and the day before, but when it came to my daughter I would ask a hundred times to make sure every detail was secure.

“Yes, I spoke with her grandparents last night, again, and she will be on the early flight back to New York first thing tomorrow. She has a first-class ticket.”

“The nanny is sitting with her?”

“Of course. Always, sir. I bought two tickets together.”

I twisted my lips together. I considered how much I disliked this arrangement. Four times a year I sent my daughter to visit her grandparents in Valencia. Part of the agreement was that she didn’t travel without, Nicole, the nanny I hired the minute I had taken custody. The grandparents had pushed back, but there wasn’t much they could do. I had full custody and it was my decision. Avajean traveled with the person I trusted, or she wouldn’t travel at all.

Gene and Shelly were good people. I had gotten to known them through bits and pieces of conversations that revolved around their granddaughter. It didn’t change the circumstances. Their daughter had walked out and never returned. Avajean didn’t have a mother. I was the one left trying to navigate single parenting. Over the past two years I had built a securities empire, while managing fatherhood. I seemed to succeed at one more than the other.

“I think I’ll give Nicole a call once I know everyone is awake on the west coast. I don’t know that she would appreciate a 5:30am call.”

“I’m sure they’d love to hear from you, no matter what time you called, sir.” Mickey could get away with lies like that because of the kind tone in her voice. Anyone else would sound flat and fake.

I chuckled. “Thanks, Mickey. I’ll see you in the office in an hour.” I ended the call and tossed the phone on the coffee table.

I walked to the doorway of the master suite. The brunette from last night was tangled in my sheets. Her long legs were toned. Her toenails painted red.

Savannah Green and I met for drinks last night in the lobby of my building, under the guise of her wanting a marketing contract. She claimed to be an expert in online data. She threw out snappy catch phrases like SEO and high CPC returns. I drank bourbon and listened, knowing full well her only intention was to make it upstairs to my bed.

Serious businesswomen didn’t meet clients at 9:00 pm wearing fuck-me heels and mini-skirts. The way her boobs spilled out of her top didn’t give her much professional credit either. I took her cues and after two drinks took her to the penthouse.

There wasn’t going to be a contract. I didn’t do business with women I slept with. Savannah didn’t believe me. She wanted to change my mind with her body. Westbrook Securities didn’t do business like that.

Her eyes opened. She smiled like a satisfied cat.

“Good morning,” she purred.

“Good morning.” I watched her from across the room. “Should I have a car take you back to your place?” I offered.