Marrying my CEO Baby Daddy

“If you come anywhere near my daughter, I will turn your life into hell.”

He just laughs over the phone like I just said a joke. I’m dead serious.

"You can't keep doing this, East," I hiss, pressing the phone harder against my cheek while I balance Sunny on my hip.

"Doing what? Wanting to see my own daughter?" His voice comes out sharp, clipped, the way it always does right before he starts twisting things around.

"The judge said weekends. You know that. I know that." I shift Sunny to my other arm, and she grabs a fistful of my hair, tugging hard enough that my eyes water.

"The judge doesn't know what it's like raising a kid he's never met," East snaps, and I can hear ice clinking in a glass somewhere behind him, like he's already three drinks deep into his evening.

"That's not my problem. That's yours." I keep my voice flat, refusing to give him the reaction he wants.

"You're going to regret this," he says, and something in his tone drops lower, meaner. "You have no idea who you're dealing with."

"I know exactly who I'm dealing with," I fire back, feeling my chest tighten with a mix of fear and fury I've gotten used to swallowing. "I dealt with you for two years."

"Elena—"

I hang up before he can finish, my thumb slamming the red button like it could physically shut his voice off.

My hands are shaking, and Sunny squirms against me, sensing the tension the way babies always do.

"Okay, okay, baby girl," I whisper, pressing my lips to the top of her head, breathing in the sweet smell of her shampoo to ground myself. "Mommy's here."

The apartment looks like a tornado ripped through a toy store.

Blocks are scattered across the rug, one of Sunny's socks is hanging off the lampshade for reasons I will never understand, and there's a suspicious wet patch on the couch cushion that I'm choosing to ignore for now.

I carry her to the kitchen and set her in the high chair, and she immediately starts banging her spoon against the tray like a tiny, furious drummer.

"Alright, alright, food is coming," I laugh despite myself, scooping mashed sweet potato into a bowl.

She smears half of it on her cheek before any of it makes it into her mouth, and I wipe her face with the edge of my sleeve because the paper towels ran out yesterday and I haven't had time to buy more.

She’s three years old. What’s there to expect?

My phone rings again, and for one heart-stopping second I think it's East calling back to finish his threat, but Quinn's name flashes across the screen instead, and I exhale.

"Please tell me you're free right now," Quinn says the moment I pick up, his voice already vibrating with drama, "because I need to talk about Marco."

"Who's Marco?" I ask, wedging the phone between my shoulder and ear so I can keep spooning food into Sunny's mouth.

"The guy from last night! Tall, works in finance, laughs at his own jokes but somehow it's charming instead of annoying," Quinn rambles, and I can practically see him pacing his apartment in his head.

"Okay, and?" I prompt, wiping another smear of sweet potato off Sunny's chin.

"And he texted me a paragraph this morning. A whole paragraph, Elena. With punctuation." Quinn gasps like this is breaking news. "Meet me for drinks so I can show you screenshots."

"I can't tonight," I say, glancing at the clock on the microwave and feeling my stomach twist. "I have that interview, remember? The one at Carter Enterprises."

"Right, right, the fancy CEO thing," Quinn says, and I hear him deflate a little. "Okay, go get 'em, superstar. Call me the second it's over."

"I will," I promise, hanging up just as Sunny flings her spoon across the kitchen with a triumphant shriek.

By the time I get her fed, bathed, and settled with the neighbor's teenage daughter who babysits for extra cash, I have exactly forty minutes to make myself look like someone who deserves a corporate job. I throw on the one blazer I own that doesn't have a stain on it, and I'm out the door with my heart hammering against my ribs.

The building downtown looks like it was built to intimidate, all glass and steel stretching up into a sky I can't even see the top of from the sidewalk. My heels click against the marble floor as I approach the front desk, and a woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper smile looks up.

"You must be the four-thirty interview," she says, and her tone somehow manages to sound like an insult wrapped in professionalism.

"Elena Tones," I confirm, extending my hand, which she looks at for a beat too long before shaking it like it costs her something.

"Kelly Archer. I'm his assistant," she says, already turning on her heel. "Follow me, and try to keep up."

I trail behind her through a hallway that feels endless, my pulse climbing with every step, my palms damp against the strap of my bag. Kelly stops in front of a set of dark double doors and gestures with a flick of her wrist that somehow conveys both boredom and contempt.

"He's waiting," she says, and pushes the door open just enough for me to slip through.

I step inside, smoothing my blazer with one hand, plastering on the calm, confident smile I practiced in the bathroom mirror. The man behind the desk looks up from his papers, and the world tilts sideways beneath my feet.

It's Nolan. Nolan Carter.

My first love and my first heartbreak.

I am thirteen the first time Nolan walks into our living room with a girl on his arm.

Dad introduces them like it’s nothing special. “Elena, this is Nolan. And his girlfriend, Claire.”

Claire smiles too wide, all perfect teeth and shiny hair. “Hi, sweetie.”

I hate her already.

Nolan is tall, dark-haired, and he looks at me like I’m an actual person instead of a kid. “Hey, Elena. Nice to finally meet you.” His voice is low and steady.

I mumble something back and stare at the floor. Claire laughs at something Dad says. The sound scrapes inside my chest. I watch Nolan’s hand rest lightly on her lower back and feel something sharp and ugly twist under my ribs.

That night I lie awake replaying the way he said my name.

Two years later Dad is gone for a week on business and asks Nolan to check on me.

“She’s fifteen, not five,” Dad says on the phone, “but I’d feel better knowing someone’s around.”

Nolan shows up the fir