The Boss. The Baby. The Lie.

Chapter 5 – Two Cribs, One Future

(Hailey Miller POV)

Liam opened his penthouse to us, and while part of me ached for the garden I left behind—the soft earth under my feet, the roses that didn’t judge—the truth was cruel in its clarity.

This was the better choice. For Caleb.

Ethan hadn’t just left me with memories. He’d left a crater. A yawning, inescapable hole of debt and deceit I’d never crawl out of alone. This wasn’t kindness. It wasn’t charity.

This was survival.

One year. That’s what I promised myself. One year of silence-swallowing luxury and shadowed hallways. Of pretending my heart wasn’t cracked down the middle.

I could do this. I had done worse. Cook. Clean. Soothe a baby to sleep with lullabies I barely believed in. The only difference now? There were two of them. Two tiny souls looking to me like I was the whole world.

Caleb… and Isabella Romano.

Liam had already left—called away for some “urgent meeting” that felt more like a command than a choice. I’d hoped he’d be here when she woke. Hoped he’d walk me through it. But life didn’t wait for readiness. It never had.

When her whimper broke the silence, I froze mid-step. One beat. Then another. Then came the cry—sharp, fragile, searching.

I moved toward it on instinct.

Into the oversized nursery, too pristine to feel lived in. I crossed to her crib and scooped her up, cradling her against my chest like she was made to fit there.

“There, there, sweetheart,” I whispered. “It’s alright now.”

She blinked up at me, wide eyes full of questions she couldn’t ask. Her tiny hand reached upward, brushing my collarbone like she was searching for something familiar and finding only me.

“Hi, Isabella. I’m Hailey,” I murmured, voice soft as I swayed with her. “I know none of this makes sense yet. It doesn’t for me either. But we’ll figure it out… together.”

The nursery was enormous—too big for such small people. Two cribs now stood side by side, pale wood polished to a shine. Shelves lined with untouched toys. The rocking chair from my old house sat in the corner like a ghost from a life I no longer belonged to.

A folded paper on the dresser caught my eye: Liam’s version of a baby care schedule—printed, timed to the minute, annotated like a military briefing.

It was feeding time.

My pulse kicked harder. Not a bottle. Nursing.

Something raw and real. A part of me that wasn’t meant to be shared.

This was different.

I hesitated—just for a second—then sat in the rocker, steadying my breath. I unclasped the nursing bra, heart thudding in my throat. I half expected her to turn away. To fuss. To reject me like her body might still remember a mother who hadn’t cared enough to stay.

But Isabella didn’t hesitate.

She latched immediately—firm, hungry, as if her tiny world had narrowed to the warmth of skin and the sound of my heartbeat.

Her hand splayed across my breast, palm warm, fingers twitching with instinct.

That simple, innocent touch undid something in me.

“Oh, sweet girl…” My voice cracked. “You don’t even know how strong you are, do you?”

She reminded me of him. Liam. That same unruly dark hair, that fierce stare that didn’t waver.

There was no question whose child she was.

And still… she’d been left to me.

The penthouse was silent—too silent. A silence that echoed. It wasn’t peace. It was absence.

It was pristine. Luxurious. The kind of luxury that didn’t whisper comfort—it announced status. Marble floors, polished steel, designer furniture so sharp-edged it looked better untouched. Everything was spotless in that cold, curated way only money can buy.

But sterile.

No laughter lingered in these walls. No warmth. No smudges of life on the windows. Not a single photo of Madison—no smiles, no echoes of her presence. It was as if she’d been scrubbed clean from every surface like a mistake no one wanted to remember.

I couldn’t imagine doing that to Ethan.

Even after everything… after the betrayal, the lies, the funeral—I wouldn’t erase him.

He was still Caleb’s father.

A soft sigh stirred behind me, tugging me out of the fog.

Caleb.

He wriggled in his crib, rubbing his tiny fists into his eyes, his lashes sticking together in a sleep-drunk haze. I adjusted Isabella on my hip, her warm little body curled into mine as she suckled with single-minded focus.

“You’re in for a surprise, little man,” I whispered, smiling gently down at him. “Meet your new roommate.”

He blinked up at us, confused, then squinted as if processing what he was seeing. His brow furrowed. And then—he grunted.

A sharp, unimpressed huff.

I laughed, the sound surprising even me.

“She’s not replacing you, buddy. Just borrowing me for a minute, okay?” I sank down onto the nursery rug, tucking the top of my nursing dress back into place before gently lifting Caleb into my arms. “See? There’s room for both of you.”

Isabella finished first, a little milk-drunk and clearly not happy about being displaced. The second I shifted her to burp her, she let out a shrill wail that seemed to echo off the penthouse walls.

Tears streamed down her cheeks—big, wet, angry drops of protest.

“Okay, okay. I hear you,” I murmured, bouncing her softly while still holding Caleb close. She clung to me with both fists, digging into my shoulder like she never wanted to be let go.

After Caleb finished nursing, I laid them side by side on the plush rug, nesting them in a soft circle of rattles and stuffed animals. For a moment, the sight of them—two tiny bodies, two new beginnings—stilled something in me.

I turned to the drawers, unpacking baby clothes with careful folds. Onesies. Tiny socks. Sleepers that still smelled like home.

The nursery’s mural caught my eye—trees painted in gentle greens and blues, deer and foxes nestled among wildflowers. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a heartbeat in the otherwise silent space.

Warmth.

At least one thing here felt like it belonged to children.

But then I glanced at the windows—floor-to-ceiling glass, sleek and modern and far too low. They were locked, of course. But I couldn’t help it.

I dragged a shelf in front of them anyway. Just in case.

It was silly. Neither of them could crawl yet, let alone walk. But fear doesn’t care about logic. After you’ve lost something once, your body rewires. It memorizes the panic. The what-ifs.

Liam had mentioned wanting structure.

Correction: he’d handed me a binder—thick as a college thesis—his version of a routine.

“I tried building a schedule,” he’d said earlier, nodding as the movers unloaded box after box into this high-rise glass cage. “Madison always said she had things under control, but… I never really knew what that meant.”

I remembered flipping it open, half-expecting chaos. But no.

It was meticulous.

Every feeding, nap, bath, and diaper change since Isabella was born, broken down into color-coded tabs, margins filled with clean black ink. A manual. Obsessive.

“With two babies, a schedule’s a miracle,” I’d said, eyes skimming the pages. “But yeah… this’ll help.”

He gave a short nod. Then, without ceremony, he slid a sleek black card across the counter. My name was already engraved in delicate silver script—clean, elegant, final.

“If you need anything, use this,” he said, voice low and even. “And if you feel like trying, there’s space on the terrace. It’s not much, but... if you can manage a small garden—go for it.”

I’d already peeked outside. A glistening pool dominated the view, flanked by a few limp potted plants that looked like they were surviving out of sheer spite. Beyond that, the city sprawled endlessly—glass towers and traffic veins glowing beneath the afternoon haze.

But I missed real earth.

I missed dirt under my nails. I missed the rosemary that grew wild on my windowsill, and the fresh mint I used to pluck for morning tea.

Still, time would be scarce here.

Not with two babies.

This place—cold steel, gleaming glass, air conditioned silence—was built for power, not play. And yet... here we were. A mother with a borrowed child. A widower with no wife. Two infants caught in the middle of something far too grown.

While the babies cooed on the rug, I drifted into the open kitchen and unpacked what I’d brought—soft fruits, fresh vegetables, a small bundle of herbs tied with twine. Liam had stocked the pantry with expensive baby food—imported, organic, polished to perfection. But I’d seen the labels. Seen the way Isabella wrinkled her nose after tasting it.

She had formula allergies. I didn’t trust jars.

I began peeling sweet potatoes, the rhythmic thwack of the knife steadying my nerves. I hummed under my breath—an old lullaby I didn’t realize I remembered—until the sound of footsteps cut through the quiet.

A second later, his voice followed—measured but alert. “I was going to apologize for getting pulled away, but… this is exactly why I need you here.”

I turned.

Liam stood in the archway, his jacket draped over one arm, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, tie loosened like the day had wrung him out. His hair was mussed, his gaze unreadable. But then—he crossed the room and crouched beside Isabella, and all that tension melted from his shoulders.

“Hey there, little storm cloud,” he murmured, brushing a soft curl from her cheek.

She gurgled in response, kicking her feet like she’d been waiting for him.

Caleb watched with his usual squinty skepticism.

“I hope she didn’t give you a hard time,” Liam said, still focused on his daughter.

“Not at all,” I replied, drying my hands on a dish towel. “She nursed like a champ. Got a little fussy when she had to share me, but... she’s a sweetheart.”

His eyes lifted at that—just for a second. And in that look, something unspoken passed between us. A thread pulled taut with understanding. Gratitude. Something dangerously close to trust.

“I was thinking roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans for dinner,” I said, trying to steady the air between us. “Simple, but homemade.”

He smiled faintly, gaze still fixed on Isabella. “That sounds perfect.”

And for a brief, fragile moment, I believed him.

I believed this could work. That a year wouldn’t be as long as it sounded. That I could live in this penthouse without letting it swallow me whole. That I could keep the lines sharp between what was temporary… and what might start to feel like home.

That I wouldn’t fall in love with a little girl who already looked at me like I was hers.

In a year, I’d be gone. California. A small house. Lemon trees and space to breathe. Jane wouldn’t know the mess Ethan left behind—she barely knew I hadn’t buried him properly. When she got back from her film shoot, I’d hand her a clean story wrapped in pretty lies. Something that didn’t ask her to fix what was never hers.

I could handle this.

I had to.