CEO Has My Son, I Want Him Back

"Mr. Baldwin says no underwear whatsoever," Curtis chipped in cheerfully.

Eva's head snapped around quickly. "Excuse me?"

Curtis looked smug. "Just following instructions. And I follow them to the letter." He raised a manicured finger for emphasis, the rings on his hand catching the light. "This is the best gig I've had in years. I even had to sign an NDA—so, my lady," he said with a dramatic bow, "you and I are going to be best friends. Whether you like it or not."

Eva stared at him in disbelief, the absurdity of it all slowly crashing over her. Her brain stalled.

"He has you on retainer?" she asked.

Curtis grinned with pride. "Yes."

Of course he did. Of course Alex Baldwin, the billionaire would commit to hiring a personal stylist for one woman.

She nodded, mostly to herself. Alex was taking this thing seriously. Too seriously. This wasn't the casual affair they'd both agreed on. No strings attached, no possessiveness, just a few reckless nights. That had been the deal.

Maybe she needed to remind him again.

She slipped into the dress, trying not to dwell too hard on the absence of anything beneath it. The fabric kissed her skin, whispering seduction with every shift of her body. She felt exposed. Vulnerable.

Curtis passed her one of the new shoes. "Step in, Cinderella."

The two women knelt and eased the heels onto her feet.

She stood slowly, testing the balance. The mirror confirmed what her body already knew.

She looked beautiful.

More than that—she looked powerful.

But even in this moment of unexpected confidence, a twinge of sadness pulled at her. All this—the makeup, the perfume, the dress—it wouldn't last. None of it would. This was a fantasy, and she was still the woman who'd spent last night hiding from the press and Googling herself just to see how badly she'd fallen. Six years and nothing had changed.

The elevator dinged again.

Her heart leapt despite herself.

She hurried into the living area.

But it wasn't Alex.

It was Fred.

Fred in a navy suit, holding an earpiece and an iPad.

He gave her a crisp nod. "Miss Winslow. We're ready when you are."

She sighed, pressing her fingers lightly against her temple. Of course it was Fred.

"Where is he?" Eva asked.

"Waiting for you, Miss Winslow. I will take you to him."

Of course he was.

She nodded once. Her heels clicked softly as she followed Fred down the elevator.

This all had to end tonight. It had to. No matter how intoxicating the pampering was—no matter how good it felt to be admired, attended to, worshipped—she couldn't lose sight of what mattered.

She had real things to do.

Like finding her son.

Like discovering who the hell had destroyed her life, her career, her name.

Still, as she caught her reflection in the sleek obsidian elevator walls, she had to admit: She looked like a woman who was about to set the world on fire. She only hoped she wouldn't burn herself in the process.

******

 "Did you know she was back?" Priscilla asked, her voice high-pitched and dangerously casual.

Daniel barely looked up from the phone as he passed it back to her. "Yes."

Priscilla arched a brow, the suspicious queen, ruling over her kingdom. "Did you see her?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Yes," Daniel replied, folding his arms behind his head and leaning back into the sofa.

"And you didn't tell me?" she demanded, voice going up an octave as her eyebrows all but disappeared into her hairline.

Daniel yawned, as if the entire situation bored him, which only fueled the fire in her chest. "Escaped my mind," he said, shrugging.

Priscilla's hum was sharp and accusatory. "Hmmm…"

"Do you have something to hide?" she asked, her eyes boring into him.

"For heaven's sake, dear," he groaned. "I do not want to argue about this." He shifted uncomfortably, then reached for the remote. "The neighbors at the old house called me," he explained, turning the volume down on the TV. "Said they saw lights on. So I went there to check. She was there."

Priscilla was silent for a moment. "And?"

Daniel rolled his eyes. "And nothing. She was there with a guy."

Priscilla's nostrils flared. "What guy?"

"Same guy in the picture," he said flatly, already regretting not just faking amnesia.

She gasped. "The guy?"

"Yes, Priscy. The guy."

"Who is he anyway?" Priscy asked.

"I don't know, Priscy. They seemed to have something going," Daniel muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as he leaned back into the couch. "A new man to drag into her lies."

Priscy scoffed loudly. "I really wish she would just accept who she really is. I mean, why hide being a lesbian? It's not the nineties anymore. Nobody cares."

"Well, I don't care," Daniel said with a shrug. But his tone didn't quite match the words. There was a bitter sliver in his voice.

"That's my dearest husband," she purred, shuffling over to plant a lipstick-stamped kiss on his lips. "I'm going to dinner with friends. Don't wait up."

"Priscy, would you please cut down on the spending?" Daniel sat up straighter now, concern lining his tired face. "I mean, the divorce took a lot out of me and well…"

Her stilettos stopped clicking against the marble floor. Slowly, she turned with one arched brow. "What are you saying? If you couldn't keep up with my lifestyle, you shouldn't have married me, Daniel."

He groaned softly, rubbing his forehead. "It's not forever. Just until I get that contract with Norland Finance. Things are tight right now."

Priscy twirled a single lock of hair around her finger, eyeing her phone's screen with disinterest. "I already promised to treat my friends tonight. I'll put a hold on the spending after that."

Daniel exhaled in relief. "Thank you, sweetie."

Priscy flipped her hair and walked out, her perfume trailing behind her.

*****

In Balthazar, a French restaurant, Alex Baldwin sat at a reserved table tucked near the vintage mirror wall. Waiters in pressed white shirts floated past, the clinking of crystal and murmured sophistication providing a lush soundtrack to the evening.