Page 177 of Dial F for Finance

“Dominic!” I gasp, gripping his broad shoulders as the fairy lights blur into streaks of gold.

“You’re pregnant,” he murmurs, burying his face in my neck as he slowly lets my feet touch the ground again. His breath is hot and shaky against my skin. “We’re having a baby. A kid, Jen. Our kid.”

“Yes,” I manage to say, threading my fingers into the thick hair at the nape of his neck. “Though I expect you to maintain absolute secrecy until the end of the first trimester. No telling Bennett, and absolutely no telling Logan until we know everything’s going to work out.”

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes shining with an emotion so profound it knocks the breath right out of my lungs.

“I’ll sign whatever NDA you want, partner,” he murmurs, his thumbs gently sweeping across my cheekbones. “A baby. God, you’re going to be the most terrifying, magnificent mother in existence. The PTA won’t stand a chance.”

“I already have thoughts on their fundraising inefficiencies,” I admit, leaning my forehead against his.

He laughs again, kissing me with a reverence that makes the rest of the wedding fade into background noise. “Let’s go watch Logan and Audrey cut that cake,” he whispers against my mouth. “And then I’m taking my pregnant wife home so I can start heavily investing in your prenatal exercises.”

“That is the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I’m just getting started, Pemberton-Cruz.”

Epilogue Two

HAILEY

San Francisco doesn’t do sunrise the way Queens does. It does fog—soft, silver, rolling off the bay like the whole city is being developed in a darkroom—and I stand at the window of my tiny furnished sublet at six a.m. in my best blazer, watching it burn off, wondering whether I’m as cut out for this executive life as my sister Jenna is.

She left our home in Queens eighteen years ago and built a career out of sheer willpower, sharp intellect, and perfectly tailored neutral tones. I don’t have her bulletproof armor yet, and I certainly don’t have her husband Dominic’s effortless, room-commanding arrogance. But as I smooth my hands down the front of my slacks and grab the leather tote they bought me as a going-away gift, I remind myself of my brother-in-law’s parting advice.

Brutal honesty and math.

I can do math.

The Canfield Group occupies the top four floors of a gleaming glass spire in the Financial District. The elevator ride makes my ears pop, and my stomach drops somewhere around the twentieth floor. When the doors finally part, I’m greeted by acres of brushed steel, white marble, and the hushed, high-stakes hum of elite venture capital.

I approach the receptionist’s desk—a massive block of unpolished granite that looks like it was carved from a mountainside exclusively for this room.

“Hailey Pemberton,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the frantic flutter in my chest. “First day. I’m the new executive assistant to Mr. Canning.”

The receptionist, a woman with a perfectly sleek chignon and an impeccably tailored navy suit, offers a polite, measured smile. She taps at her keyboard and hands me an employee swipe card on a lanyard.

“Welcome to the Canfield Group, Ms. Pemberton. Mr. Canning is wrapping up a call. Please have a seat in the lounge; he’ll be right out to greet you personally.”

I nod, retreating to a low-slung, aggressively modern white leather sofa that probably costs more than my college tuition. The moment I sit, I unearth my phone from my new tote, rest the swipe card against the bag’s pristine leather, and snap a quick photo. I drop it into the group chat I share with my sister and brother-in-law.

Me:

Infiltrated the fortress. The perimeter is secure. Haven’t been thrown out yet.

Three dots immediately bubble on the screen. Jenna is typing.

Jenna:

Posture, Hailey. Shoulders back. Do not let the marble intimidate you. You earned that seat. Don’t let them see you sweat.

A second later, Dominic chimes in.

Dominic:

Give ’em hell, kid. If Canning gives you any grief, remind him I have enough capital to outbid him on his next deal just for fun. Brutal honesty and math. You’ve got this.

I smile, the tight knot of anxiety in my stomach loosening just a fraction. They might be thousands of miles away in Chicago, but their combined presence helps me feel less nervous. I take a deep breath, slip the phone back into my tote, and loop the lanyard around my neck, sitting up a little straighter.