Lahat ng Kabanata ng Rejected by the Billionaire, Returned With His Child: Kabanata 21 - Kabanata 30

JENNAZion arrives on a Tuesday.Four in the morning, the English sky still the deep, seamless black that comes before even the suggestion of dawn. The estate is so quiet that between contractions I can hear the old house settling around me — the low creak of timber, the distant tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway below — sounds I have come to know the way you come to know a person. Steadily, without realizing it, until one day you cannot imagine the silence without them.Sylvia sits beside my hospital bed the entire time. Not holding my hand exactly — that would be too much for Sylvia, who expresses care the way other people express mathematics, precisely and without sentiment — but close enough that if I needed her I could reach her. She refills my water without being asked. She tells the night nurse, once, in a voice that leaves no room for interpretation, that I am not to be disturbed between contractions unless medically necessary. Then she folds her hands in her lap and

JENNAThree years in, J. Kingsley Strategies is no longer a dream written in a notebook at Faith's kitchen table.It is a company with fourteen employees, four major clients, and an office in central London on the third floor of a building with tall windows and exposed brick and the particular smell of fresh paint and ambition that I have decided I want to breathe for the rest of my working life. The logo — clean black script on white, elegant and unfussy — was designed by a young artist named Bea who Zion selected from a portfolio of twelve because he liked the way she drew dogs. He was two and a half. His criteria were firm.I kept her because her typography was flawless and her instincts were sharper than people twice her age. Zion takes full credit for the hire. I have stopped arguing.Eleanor's business contacts seed the first clients. Her name opens doors that would otherwise stay shut for years — I know this, I have never pretended otherwise, and I hold no illusions about the h

JENNAFaith has not changed.This is the first thing I notice when she crashes into me outside baggage claim, nearly knocking Eleanor's carry-on out of Sylvia's hand, talking at full volume before the hug is even finished. Same energy. Same chaotic warmth. Same complete inability to modulate her excitement in public spaces. I have missed her so badly that the sight of her makes my eyes sting, which I refuse to acknowledge, because we are in an airport and I am wearing a twelve-hundred-dollar coat and I have a reputation to maintain."Oh my God," she says, pulling back to look at me. Then she looks again. "Jenna. What did England do to you?""Gave me good tailoring and regular sleep," I say."You look like a CEO.""I am a CEO."She stares at me for another second, then turns to Zion, who has been waiting beside me with the focused patience of someone who has heard a great deal about this woman and is prepared to withhold judgment until he has conducted his own assessment. Faith drops t

JAXONThe penthouse is too quiet.It has been too quiet for a year now — since the day Vivienne packed her things with the furious efficiency of a woman who had been caught and knew it, dragging suitcases across the marble floor while I stood in the kitchen drinking coffee and saying nothing, because there was nothing left to say. The conversation had lasted four minutes. Everything after that was silence, and I have been living inside it ever since.I tell myself I don't mind the quiet. I am a man who functions well alone. I always have been.But tonight I am standing at the floor-to-ceiling window with a glass of scotch I haven't touched, staring at the city below, and the quiet feels different. It feels like it is waiting for something.That boy's eyes.I cannot stop coming back to it. I have tried — buried myself in the acquisition report that needed reviewing, called Hayes back about the Chicago development, stood in the shower for twenty minutes letting the water run cold — and

JAXONThe pitch is scheduled for ten o'clock.I do not normally attend agency presentations. That is what I have a marketing director for — a capable woman named Serena Walsh who has been with Vale Industries for three years and who I trust to filter the good from the mediocre without requiring my presence in a conference room for ninety minutes while someone talks me through a slide deck. But the rebranding initiative is different. This is not a campaign or a product launch. This is the face of Vale Industries for the next decade, and my father built this company with his name and I am not handing that to someone I haven't looked in the eye.So I clear the morning. I take the elevator to the thirty-second floor conference room at nine fifty-five, coffee in hand, and I sit at the head of the table while Serena briefs me on the three firms."First up is Hartwell & Crane," she says, sliding a folder toward me. "Strong track record, very established, a little traditional for what we're g