Chapter 2 - The Canceled CalendarBy the time dawn broke over the Manhattan skyline, painting the glass towers in shades of amber and rose, I had systematically dismantled my entire schedule for the foreseeable future.
My phone had been buzzing intermittently since 6:00 a.m. with high-priority notifications, merger updates, and urgent messages from my executive team in London. My chief of staff, Marcus, had texted at 7:15 a.m. asking if something was catastrophic—reminding me that our multi-billion-dollar acquisition of a European logistics firm was scheduled for a final board vote on Monday morning.
I tapped my screen and replied with a single sentence: Everything has changed. Postpone everything.
Across the expansive, minimalist kitchen of the penthouse, Sloan stood by the marble island, gently bouncing Willa in her arms while trying to take a hesitant sip of black coffee. She looked over the rim of her mug, watching me with deep, guarded suspicion as I tossed my phone onto the counter.
“You canceled work?” she asked, her tone laced with disbelief.
“Yes.”
“You never cancel work, Vincent. Not for holidays, not for illness, not even when our marriage was actively falling apart.”
“I’m canceling work now,” I replied evenly, walking over toward the coffee maker to pour myself a cup.
She studied me like a predator sizing up an unfamiliar beast, clearly waiting for the catch, the hidden manipulation, or the moment I would snap and revert to the workaholic corporate machine she had divorced.
Then, without warning, Willa let out a sudden, piercing wail.
The transition from a quiet, sleepy infant to a screaming, red-faced bundle of distress happened in less than a second.
Sloan instantly went pale.
It wasn't the look of a tired mother. It was something far worse.
It was absolute, unadulterated fear.
“Sloan?” I stepped forward immediately, closing the distance between us. “What’s wrong? Is she sick?”
Instead of answering, she clutched Willa tighter against her chest, her breathing turning shallow and erratic. Her hands began to tremble so violently that the coffee mug in her hand sloshed over the rim, spilling dark liquid across the marble counter.
“Vincent…” she whispered, her voice cracking with rising panic. “There’s… there’s something about her you still don’t know.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. The corporate CEO, the man who negotiated ruthless multi-national contracts without blinking, felt a cold knot of terror twist deep in his gut.
“What are you talking about?” I demanded, reaching out to steady her shaking shoulders. “Sloan, look at me. What is wrong with Willa?”
Before she could form the words to explain, a sudden, sharp rapping echoed from the private elevator foyer at the entrance of the penthouse.
Someone was at the door.
Sloan froze completely, her eyes darting toward the hallway. “They’re here.”
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“Who’s here?” I asked, my protective instincts surging to the surface, my jaw tightening into a hard line. “Who the hell comes to my penthouse unannounced at eight in the morning?”
“Not your friends, Vincent,” Sloan breathed, a tear finally spilling over her lashes. “And not your business associates. The people at that door are the reason I’ve been running for the last five months.”
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