Hiding His Sick Child From The CEO

The biting wind coming off the East River sliced right through Carla's thin, washed-out trench coat the second she stepped out of the Upper East Side subway station.

She shivered, pulling the collar up around her neck. Her fingers were numb as she pulled her phone from her pocket. She stared at the screen, double-checking the address her sick coworker, Alice, had texted her that morning.

It was right in front of her. The premier private rehabilitation center in Manhattan.

Carla pushed through the heavy glass revolving doors. The sudden rush of warm, climate-controlled air did nothing to stop the trembling in her hands.

She walked up to the massive marble front desk. "Hello, I am Carla Bradley," she said, her voice steady despite the chill in her bones. "I am here as the substitute for Alice's music therapy appointment." She slid her music therapist certification across the polished surface.

The receptionist, a woman with perfectly manicured nails, barely glanced at the paper. Instead, her eyes dragged up and down Carla's faded jeans and scuffed sneakers. The judgment was a physical weight pressing down on Carla's shoulders.

Without a word, the receptionist slid a temporary access card across the marble.

Carla took it, her face burning. She swiped the card at the private elevator bank and stepped inside.

The mirrored walls of the elevator reflected her exhausted face. Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes. Her hair was pulled back into a messy knot. She looked exactly like what she was: a desperate woman working three jobs to survive.

The elevator glided to a halt on the top floor. The VIP wing.

Carla stepped out. The thick, plush carpet instantly swallowed the sound of her footsteps. The silence here was heavy, expensive.

She found the door marked V01. It was cracked open.

Carla pushed it. The scent of sharp medical bleach mixed with the rich, heavy aroma of expensive sandalwood hit her face.

She stepped into the suite. Her eyes immediately bypassed the luxury furniture and locked onto the massive Steinway grand piano sitting by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Carla walked over to it. She dropped her heavy canvas tote bag onto the floor and pulled out the piano bench. She sat down.

She took a deep breath, letting the air fill her tight lungs. She raised her hands. Her fingertips barely brushed the cold, smooth surface of the black and white keys.

A soft click echoed through the room.

Carla flinched, quickly pulling her hands back into her lap. She stood up, her hands smoothing down the wrinkled hem of her shirt.

The door to the inner bedroom opened. A little girl, no older than five, stepped out. She wore a soft, custom-made pale pink cashmere lounge set with a delicate embroidered rabbit on the pocket.

Carla forced a warm, professional smile onto her face. She crouched down, trying to bring herself to the girl's eye level.

The little girl didn't speak. She just stood there, her small arms wrapped tightly around a stuffed rabbit, her large eyes staring at Carla with intense defense.

Before Carla could say a word, the sharp, rhythmic click of designer heels against the marble hallway floor pierced the quiet room.

The heavy suite door was pushed wide open. Charis Clark walked in, wearing a flawless Chanel tweed suit.

Charis stopped. Her eyes swept over Carla. Her perfectly arched eyebrows pulled together in a look of pure, condescending displeasure.

Carla immediately stood up straight. She opened her mouth to introduce herself as the substitute therapist.

A heavy, familiar sound stopped the words in her throat. The sound of expensive leather dress shoes stepping into the room right behind Charis.

A tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped into the light. A dark, impeccably tailored suit wrapped around his chest.

Carla's eyes moved up the dark tie, up the strong jawline, and finally landed on his face.

Her lungs stopped working. The air was physically ripped from her chest.

It was Julien Wagner.

The man she had abandoned for money five years ago.

Julien's casual gaze swept across the room. The second his eyes landed on Carla, his entire body went rigid. The temperature in the room plummeted.

Their eyes locked. The air between them evaporated. Carla's heart slammed against her ribs so hard she felt the pain in her back.

Charis didn't notice a thing. She naturally reached out and wrapped her arm around Julien's bicep, leaning into him.

"The traffic on Park Avenue was a nightmare," Charis complained, her voice sweet and whiny.

The little girl, Eleni, ran over and pressed herself against Julien's leg. She didn't make a sound, but her small hands gripped his tailored trousers tightly.

Carla stared at the perfect family standing in front of her. A physical blow struck her stomach, making her nauseous.

Julien's eyes slowly dragged down from Carla's pale face, taking in her cheap, oversized coat and her worn-out shoes.

A slow, cruel smirk twisted the corner of his mouth. It was a look of absolute mockery.

Carla's hands were shaking violently. She gripped the plastic therapy clipboard she had taken from her bag.

She squeezed it. Her knuckles turned stark white.

A loud, sharp crack echoed through the silent room as the plastic clipboard snapped in half in her hands.

The sound of the breaking plastic shattered the dead silence in the room.

Charis frowned, her eyes darting to Carla.

Carla's chest heaved. She scrambled to shove the broken pieces of the clipboard back into her canvas bag.

"I apologize," Carla said. Her voice came out raspy, scraping against her dry throat.

Charis looked her up and down, her nose wrinkling in disgust. "Why did the front desk send someone so incredibly unprofessional? Where is Alice?"

Carla swallowed the thick lump of humiliation in her throat. She reached into her pocket with trembling fingers and pulled out her business card.

"Alice is sick. I am her substitute. I am fully certified by the American Music Therapy Association," Carla said, holding the card out.

Julien didn't look at the card. His dark eyes were fixed on Carla's shaking fingers. His jaw ticked, the muscles jumping beneath his skin. The darkness in his eyes deepened.

Charis snatched the card from Carla's hand and tossed it carelessly onto the top of the Steinway. She leaned her head against Julien's shoulder, a deliberate claim of ownership.

"Julien pushed back his Wall Street board meeting just to be here with us today," Charis said, making sure her voice was loud enough for Carla to hear.

Carla dropped her gaze to the floor. She bit down hard on the soft tissue inside her cheek. She bit it until she tasted the metallic tang of blood, using the physical pain to stop the tears from forming.

"How do you plan to start the session?" Julien's voice cut through the room. It was devoid of any warmth. It sounded like metal scraping against ice.

Carla took a sharp breath through her nose. She turned her back to them and faced the piano, desperate to hide her face.

"I will start with a soothing Mozart sonata for Eleni. It helps with selective mutism," Carla said, keeping her voice flat.

"No," Charis interrupted sharply. Her tone was dripping with disdain.

Charis pointed a manicured finger at the keys. "Play Wagner's Bridal Chorus."

Carla's head snapped up. A physical jolt of pain shot straight through her heart.

"Next month is our engagement anniversary," Charis smiled, looking up at Julien. "I want to get into the mood."

Carla's eyes darted to Julien. She looked at him, silently begging him to stop this.

Julien stood there, his hands shoved deep into his suit pockets. His face was a blank, unreadable mask. He stared right back at her, offering no help. He was allowing this.

His cold eyes sent a clear message: You chose this when you took the money.

Carla looked away. Her hands hovered over the black and white keys. They were shaking so badly she could barely keep them straight.

She pressed down on the first chord. She pressed so hard the tips of her fingers turned white. The heavy, grand sound of the Steinway filled the room.

The familiar melody washed over her. Instantly, the memory of a Brooklyn rooftop five years ago crashed into her brain. Julien on one knee. The cheap string lights. The promise of forever.

Carla's vision blurred. The back of her throat burned like fire. She bit her cheek harder, refusing to let a single tear fall in front of him.

Behind her, Charis sighed happily, leaning her weight against Julien's chest. She looked like a victor claiming her prize.

But Julien wasn't looking at Charis. His eyes were nailed to Carla's rigid back. He watched the way her shoulders shook with every note. A violent fire burned in his chest.

Eleni sensed the suffocating tension in the room. The little girl shrank back, retreating to the far corner of the velvet sofa, clutching her rabbit.

The final chord rang out. Carla ripped her hands away from the keys as if the ivory had burned her skin.

She stood up abruptly. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly. "The music introduction is over for today," she choked out.

Charis clapped her hands together in a slow, mocking rhythm. She reached into her designer bag, pulled out a sleek black credit card, and tapped it against the edge of the piano. "Here is a tip," Charis sneered, her eyes raking over Carla's clothes. "Go buy yourself a decent coat. You look like a beggar."

The sharp words hung in the air. It was the ultimate insult.

Carla didn't look at the money. She grabbed her canvas bag by the straps.

Without looking back, she bolted for the heavy suite door and ran.

The heavy mahogany door slammed shut behind Carla, cutting off the air in the room.

Julien stared at the closed door. His jaw was locked so tight his teeth ached. He suddenly shoved Charis away from him.

Charis stumbled backward, her heels catching on the thick carpet. The smug smile vanished from her face. She stared at him in shock.

Julien didn't say a single word to her. He took long, aggressive strides toward the door, ripped it open, and walked out.

The hallway was empty. The digital numbers above the VIP elevator were already dropping.

Julien cursed under his breath. He turned and walked swiftly to the end of the corridor. He pulled out a sleek platinum access card, swiped it against the electronic reader, and shoved open the heavy metal door to the employee stairwell.

Inside the suite, Charis was left standing alone with Eleni.

The elegant mask Charis wore completely shattered. Her face twisted into an ugly sneer of pure rage.

She spun around. Her heels clicked furiously against the floor as she marched toward the sofa.

Eleni began to tremble violently. The little girl pressed herself into the corner of the cushions, wrapping her arms around her stuffed rabbit like a shield.

Charis reached out and grabbed Eleni's thin arm. Her manicured nails dug into the child's skin. The force was so brutal that Eleni's skin instantly turned white around Charis's grip.

"Don't you dare make a sound," Charis hissed, her voice a venomous whisper.

Eleni's eyes filled with tears, but her vocal cords remained paralyzed by trauma. She didn't make a peep.

"You are useless," Charis spat at the child. "You can't even keep his attention in the room for five minutes."

Charis shoved Eleni's arm away in disgust. She dug into her purse and pulled out her phone, immediately dialing her private investigator.

"I need a full background check on a substitute music therapist," Charis ordered into the phone. "Right now."

Three floors down, in the underground parking garage, Carla's frantic footsteps echoed against the concrete walls.

She was sweating. She ran until she reached her beat-up, rusted Honda Civic parked in the darkest corner of the lot.

Her hands were shaking so violently she couldn't get the key into the lock. The metal key scratched against the car door three times before it finally slid in.

Carla yanked the door open and threw herself into the driver's seat. She slammed her hand down on the central lock button. The loud click made her feel a tiny fraction of safety.

She dropped her forehead against the steering wheel. She gasped for air. The tears she had been holding back finally broke free, dropping onto the dusty dashboard.

Suddenly, the deafening roar of a massive engine echoed through the concrete garage.

Carla's head snapped up in terror.

A silver Aston Martin tore around the corner like a predator.

The sports car slammed on its brakes. The tires shrieked against the concrete. The Aston Martin swerved and parked horizontally, directly across the front bumper of Carla's Honda.

There was less than two inches of space between the cars. Her only exit was completely blocked.

The driver's side door of the Aston Martin swung upward.

Julien stepped out. The dark aura radiating off his body was terrifying.

He walked straight to Carla's window. He raised his hand and knocked on the glass.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Every strike of his knuckles against the glass felt like a hammer hitting Carla's skull.

Carla pressed her back hard against her seat, shrinking away from the window. She stared out at the man who was currently her worst nightmare.