Page 13 of Baby for My Ex’s Dad

I don’t take it personally. The terms were hers, clearly stated and agreed upon. One night, first names only, with nothing more shared once we parted. She upheld her part of the agreement better than most people I work with.

Still. I’d hoped to play with her once more before the morning claimed us. I had thoughts about daylight, what it would show me that the lamps hadn’t. A man can honor an agreement and regret its brevity in the same breath. I shave, and I regret, and by the time the razor is rinsed I’ve put the regret where I put everything with no place in a working day.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Charcoal suit. White shirt. A navy tie that has never been anywhere as interesting as Thea’s wrists. I stand a moment at the window with the city going gold below, then call Lev.

He answers on the first ring. “Yes?”

“It’s time. Assemble them for nine.”

“All of them?”

“All of them. Have Danilov bring both copies of the paperwork. I want signatures before lunch.”

A pause on the line, brief and deliberate. Lev doesn’t waste his pauses. “And the boy?”

“Send the car for him at eight-thirty. Tell the driver to wait at the curb until he comes down, however long that takes. No warning beyond that.”

“He’ll come in hungover.”

“He’ll come in as he is. That’s rather the point.”

Lev grunts, which from him is a full memorandum of agreement, and the line goes quiet. I finish my coffee standing. I take one last look at the room, the wrecked bed, the dried washcloth, the hairpin I’ve put in my breast pocket instead of the wastebasket where it belongs, and I go downstairs to take my company back.

The tower on Sixth Avenue bears my name in towering steel letters eleven feet high. Today, the new guard at the desk asks me to sign in as a visitor. He has no clue who I am. I sign, and in that act, there’s no better way to sum up the last four years.

The boardroom on forty-one features a table I selected personally, crafted from walnut, excessively long, acquired at auction from a bank that experienced insolvency due to debts incurred to more reputable individuals than its directors. By ten minutes before nine, eleven of the twelve seats are occupied. The directors arrive in a variety of states of surprise, having been interrupted from breakfasts, gyms, and in one instance, an airport lounge.

Each extends their hand in greeting with genuine warmth, as is customary among individuals who have been contemplating one another behind their backs for a year.

I accept the warmth. It costs them nothing and tells me plenty.

Danilov, our General Counsel, places two folders before the vacant chair at the head of the table and does not assume the seat. He’s aged a decade in four years. Part of this is attributable to time. The remainder has a name, and that name is not mine.

Klaus arrives late.

He comes through the door talking, sunglasses pushed into his hair, yesterday’s energy still on him along with perhaps three hours of sleep. He’s mid-sentence about the traffic when he registers the room. The full board. The folders. His father at the head of the table, in the chair he’s been calling his own for four years.

To his credit, he doesn’t stumble. He stops. He takes the sunglasses out of his hair and manufactures a smile. “Dad.”

“Sit down, Niklaus.”

He hears the full name. Everyone at the table hears it, and the room’s temperature adjusts. He takes the last empty seat, the one at the foot, and I watch him understand the geometry of that and keep the smile running anyway.

I don’t stand to speak. “Gentlemen. Elena.” A nod to Elena Roth, who runs audit and has been sending me blunter and blunter letters for eighteen months. “Thank you for assembling on short notice. I’ll be brief, because the situation doesn’t improve with length.”

Everyone in the room nods—well, except for Klaus.

“Four years ago, I went abroad to build our European and Pacific operations and left the Manhattan headquarters under interim leadership. That interim ends this morning. Effective immediately, I resume the office of chief executive.” I let them sit with it a beat. “The paperwork is before you. Danilov will walk you through the mechanics later.”

Nobody speaks. Several of them look at Klaus.

He looks at me, and the smile is gone. His voice cracks when he declares, “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“You can’t just walk in here—“ He catches the volume climbing, resets, tries the boardroom voice he’s heard other men use. “With respect. The company’s been under my leadership for four years. We’ve modernized the brand, we’ve expanded the events profile, our social presence is up four hundred percent⁠—”