My 3 Rockstar Bosses

“What’s wrong honey?” comes his low growl, blue eyes trailing over my bod. “What’s going on?”

Matt, always more communicative, rephrases the question. “Tell us, baby girl. What’s with the Little Caesars? You never eat that stuff, fast food isn’t your thing. Did something happen today?”

I give them the side-eye, seven giants staring down at me wearing masks ranging from medium-concern to outright annoyance. The annoyance is Smith, who’s probably wondering what’s for dinner.

But I don’t want to face them just now.

“There’s pizza for you in the oven,” come my choked words, hoping to distract them.

But there’s no distraction. Matt lowers that massive form next to me on the couch, as Trent sits on my other side, taking a small palm in his giant fist.

“Talk to us,” Matt growls persuasively. “Tell us what’s going on.”

Trent is just as insistent.

“Now,” he rumbles, eyes direct. “Now, honey.”

There’s no avoiding the issue. If not now, then when? And given that there’s probably a baby already, I can’t put it off forever. So taking a deep breath, the words come.

“I met Heather Mastricci today,” I say slowly. “It was a shock, to say the least.”

Silence from the seven men. Blue eyes gaze at me, shuttered and expressionless.

“What?” I ask. “Why, was it wrong to talk to her?”

Matt shrugs carelessly.

“Not wrong,” he rumbles, face calm. “But that’s a surprise. How’d you get the idea?”

Okay, this is gonna be a hard one.

“My mom,” comes my rushed admission. “I know you hate Marsha, but still. She had a point. She put me on Heather’s trail, and it’s done. I met the woman, and it was an eye-opener.”

Trent’s hand squeezes mine roughly, a pulse beating heavily in his throat although his expression remains calm.

“And so?” the doctor rumbles deep in his chest. “What about it was so bad?”

I exhale deeply, oxygen departing in a whoosh.

“She’s gaunt and lifeless, like a corpse,” I begin slowly. “She’s clearly lost a lot of weight, nothing more than skin and bones. And the woman says she’s sick all the time, an after effect of the fertility treatments. Does that sound okay to you? Does that sound fair, or right?”

But the Morgans can be obstinate.

“Heather knew what she was getting into every step of the way,” Trent replies smoothly. “I explained the fertility treatments to her in great detail – the risks, the side-effects, the chances of success. She’s the one who chose to keep going.”

“Because she wanted to be with you,” I bite out. “She cared for you. She wanted to be the mother of your child. But you left her behind.”

The silence in the living room is deafening for a moment.

“We had to move on,” Sam says finally. “Having an heir is the cornerstone of our long-term strategy. We enjoyed the woman, and spent a lot of money and time trying to make it work. But she couldn’t get pregnant,” he concludes simply.

That got me. Calling Heather “the woman.” Spelling out her role in their “strategy.” What the hell? That was rich, real rich, striking to the heart of the problem like a dart on a bullseye.

And I had to take a stand for feminism. For the things I believe in. Sure, I’m not Ms. Corporate Titan, but at the same time, people are people and deserve to be treated with respect.

“A woman is not a business plan. A baby is not a business plan. I am not a business plan,” I say tightly, standing and clenching my fists into white-knuckled balls. “These are human beings you’re talking about, people with hopes, feelings and desires. Heather is a person – a person who’s hurting because of you and your master plan. You don’t feel anything for her? Really? Not anything?”

A pause once more.