‘Owen Dear’
1442 Words
Lola grabbed the buzzing phone before Owen could stop her.
She held it to her ear with both sticky hands, her yogurt-smeared face bright with excitement. “Dada? No—baby!” she announced loudly.
Owen froze. Across the table, Kieran’s eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline. For a brief second, the only sounds in the penthouse were distant traffic and Lola’s delighted babbling.
Then a sharp, tinny melodious voice cut through the speaker.
“Owen? Is that a child?”
Owen moved immediately, prying the phone gently but firmly from Lola’s grip. “Lena,” he said under his breath. “Don’t.”
“Mine!” Lola protested, reaching for it again.
“Who was that?” Lena’s tone had shifted completely—no longer warm, no longer playful. Now it was sharp, curious, edged with something harder. “I didn’t take you for the family type, Evans. You’ve been holding out on me.”
Owen turned slightly, staring out toward the window as morning light spilled across the glass. His expression didn’t change.
“Why hide this from me, huh?” She smiled and spoke in a playful way.
“It’s not what you think,” he said evenly.
Behind him, Kieran leaned toward Lola, lowering his voice theatrically. “And the plot thickens, kiddo. Your Uncle Owen is a man of mystery.”
Lena laughed softly—a low, knowing sound. “It never is with you.’’
For a moment everything paused.
“About last night,” she continued. “I left my earrings. Cartier. White gold, diamond. You remember them.”
Owen did.
The way they’d caught the light at the bar. The deliberate way she’d removed one, slow and teasing. The sharp press of it against his neck in the back of the car.
“I’ll have them couriered to your apartment,” he said. “I could come get them,” she replied smoothly.
“Save you the trouble.”
Owen’s gaze flicked to the glass again, catching his own reflection—tired eyes, uncombed hair, a man holding a phone like it might explode.
In the reflection, he saw Kieran behind him, casually feeding Lola yogurt while giving him an emphatic thumbs-down.
“Not a good idea,” Kieran mouthed silently.
“Because of the baby?”
Lena challenged. Owen’s voice remained calm. Controlled. The same tone he used in boardrooms.
“Because it’s over, Lena. It was fun. It’s done.”
Silence took over, then a soft, icy exhale.
“The earrings. By noon,” she said. “Or I’ll assume you want to keep a souvenir. And I’ll come find it.”
The line went dead. Owen lowered the phone slowly, his grip tightening just slightly before he set it face down on the table.
“Politely. Firmly,” Kieran echoed, wiping Lola’s chin with a napkin.
“She wants her earrings,” Owen said, leaning back into his chair. His coffee had gone cold. He drank it anyway, the bitterness grounding him.
“Of course, she does,” Kieran said. “They’re just the excuse. You left before sunrise, didn’t you?”
Owen didn’t answer.
“Classic Owen,” Kieran continued. “Conquer and retreat. You create the mystery, then get annoyed when people try to solve it.”
“It was a mutual understanding.”
Kieran let out a short laugh. “Sure. Right up until it wasn’t.”.
Kieran let out a short laugh. “Sure. Right up until it wasn’t.”
Lola held out a soggy Cheerio toward Owen. Without thinking, he took it and ate it.
“You need a system,” Kieran said, leaning forward now, more serious. “One that doesn’t involve heartbroken women and misplaced jewelry.”
Owen stared at him. “A system.”
“Or a secretary,” Kieran said. “A real one. Not just to guard the helicopter—to manage this.” He gestured broadly to the phone, the kitchen, the invisible tension still hanging in the air.
Owen followed his gaze, then glanced down at Lola, who was now trying to stick a blueberry to her forehead.
Lena’s voice echoed faintly in his mind. The curiosity. The drama.
The potential for escalation. For a mess. For a story in the tabloids. ‘Billionaire Play father’s Love Child Mystery.’ He feels a familiar, cold tighten in his gut.
Just having fun, he sighed. But it always came down to a scandal or the other.
The phone lying on the side table starts buzzing, its vibration against the marble audible. A short, sharp vibration.
A text.
Owen didn’t move.
Kieran, however, stood and crossed the room, picking up the phone. He glanced at the screen—then let out a low whistle. “Well,” he said slowly. “That’s new.”
Owen didn’t turn. “It’s a picture,” Kieran added. “Of the earrings.’’
He paused. “On what looks like your pillow.” Owen stilled. Kieran looked up at him.
“She’s in your apartment, man.”
Owen moved instantly. His hand closed around the phone, movements calm, precise and controlled. He didn’t open the image. Didn’t hesitate.
He typed: ‘Leave now or I call security.’
He hit send. No emojis. No hesitation. Just a statement.
Kieran watched him carefully, silent for once. Lola tapped her spoon against the table, oblivious.
And the phone buzz at the same time the reply came almost immediately.
Kieran leaned in slightly, reading over his shoulder.
“Security knows me, Owen dear,’” he read aloud. “‘They let me up. I just wanted to return your… things.’” Owen’s jaw tightened.
‘Owen dear.’ The audacity of that woman.
He typed again, His gaze flat.
‘The things are on the dresser. You are in my bed. The math is simple. You have sixty seconds.’
He set the phone down, screen up this time, and took a slow sip of his cold coffee.
Kieran lowered his voice. “She’s not leaving, is she?”
“She will.”
But then, the screen lit up again.
Not a text. An incoming call. Owen let it ring once. Twice. Then he stooped and got it on the third, lifting it silently to his ear without a word.
Lena’s voice came through soft, intimate, and entirely unapologetic. “I can feel you everywhere, Owen,” she murmured. “And yet you’re not here. That’s a cruelty I don’t appreciate.”
Owen turned toward the window, his back to the room, the city stretching out below him in quiet order. “You’re on my property,” he said evenly. “Which makes this trespassing. Forty seconds.”
A soft rustle came through the line. “I liked you better last night,” she said. “Less rigid. More… generous.”
Owen closed his eyes briefly. He remembered fragments, the blurred faces of too many people at the gala. Champagne. Noise. Heat.
Not promises. He didn’t make promises.
“That version clocked out at 4 AM. You’re dealing with the CEO now. Twenty seconds.”
Silence. Silence on the line. Then a different sound came through, the soft, unmistakable creak of his mattress. She was getting up.
He could picture it… the silk of his sheets falling away, her silhouette against his stark, gray bedding. The performance he is sure she is putting on right now.
“Fine,” Lena said at last, her tone cooling. “The earrings are on the pillow. Consider them a souvenir.” “I won’t.” He ended the call. For a moment, he stood there, staring out over the city, counting slowly in his head. Thirty. Forty. Fifty.
Sixty, visualizing her path out of his bedroom.
Behind him, Kieran spoke quietly. “Damage assessment?”
Owen turned.
Lola had yogurt in her hair. The table was still a mess. The normal chaos of the morning felt oddly more real than anything that had just happened.
“Contained,” Owen said.
“For now,” Kieran replied. He checked his own phone, scrolling. “You realize she’s probably texting five different people about this already.”
“Let her.”
“‘I slept with Owen Evans and he threatened to call security’ is excellent brunch material,” Kieran added dryly.
Owen didn’t respond. But Kieran’s earlier words lingered. ‘A wall. A gatekeeper.’ Someone to stand between him and the consequences of his own life.
Owen glanced at his phone again. At the silence. At the aftermath of the drama.
And for the first time, the idea didn’t sound entirely unreasonable.
- Writer
