Then 15. The crying didn't taper off. It escalated. It grew hoarse, ragged, and desperate. Dean's jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached.
He looked toward the corner office. The blinds were open. Through the glass, he could see Diana Hayes pacing the length of her massive oak desk. She had taken the carrier off. She was holding the baby at arm's length as if she were a defective piece of hardware.
She was bouncing her, but the rhythm was all wrong, too erratic, too stiff, too driven by anxiety. She put the baby down on the leather sofa. She picked her up again. She tried a pacifier. The baby batted it away with a tiny furious fist.
Diana ran a hand through her hair, gripping the roots. She looked at her glowing computer screens, then down at the screaming child, and for a split second, Dean saw something he never thought he'd see on the face of the billionaire CEO, utter crushing defeat. She picked up her phone, dialing a number. Even through the glass, Dean could see her shoulders drop as it went to voicemail. She tossed the phone onto the desk.
She was trapped. She was trying to close a multi-million dollar maritime logistics deal, and she was being entirely derailed by 15 pounds of screaming flesh and bone. Dean let out a long, slow breath. He hated this company. He resented Diana Hayes and her $1,200 shoes and her casual demands that people sacrifice their lives for her profit margins.
He needed this job precisely because she paid 10 percent above market rate for the privilege of owning her employees' souls. He had every logical reason to put his headphones on, play some white noise, and let her suffer. But, he was a father, and a father's instinct doesn't check a bank balance before it kicks in. The sound of a baby tearing its own throat raw bypassed all of Dean's cynicism. He stood up.
His knees popped. He smoothed down his wrinkled cheap button-down shirt, feeling the frayed collar against his neck. He walked out from behind his cubicle and crossed the floor. The closer he got, the louder the wailing became. By the time he reached the glass door of her office, it was deafening.
He knocked gently on the glass. Diana whipped around. Her eyes were wide, bloodshot, and rimmed with smudged mascara. For a second, she looked entirely disoriented, as if she couldn't comprehend how another human being had materialized on her floor. Then, the CEO's armor snapped back into place.
Her spine stiffened, her chin tilted up. "What are you doing here?" she demanded over the noise, her voice cracking slightly. "Who are you?" Dean pushed the door open. The air in her office smelled of high-end espresso, dry cedar, and the distinct metallic scent of cortisol. "Dean Miller, data-reconciliation.
I'm working the overnight shift to finish the Tokyo audits." "Get out," she snapped, shifting the screaming baby awkwardly to her left hip. "You shouldn't be up here. Go back to your desk," Dean said, keeping his voice low, steady, and entirely devoid of the fear she usually inspired. "You're bouncing her too fast." Diana froze. Her eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.
"Excuse me?" "You're anxious. She feels it. You're holding her too tight, and you're moving too fast. It's over-stimulating her." "I did not ask for a parenting critique from an overnight data clerk," Diana snarled, though her voice wavered. "Get out of my office before I fire you." Dean didn't move.
He looked at the baby. Mia's face was dark red. Her tiny hands curled into tight, furious fists. She was sweating. "My son is six," Dean said quietly.
"When he was her age, he had colic. I didn’t sleep for eight months. I know that cry. She’s fighting sleep." My nanny quit via text message at 8:00 tonight, Diana said, the words spilling out of her as if she couldn't stop them. The dam was cracking.
I have a merger with Saito Heavy Industries finalizing in exactly 1 hour. If I don't review these contracts, the deal dies. And she won't stop crying. She looked down at the baby, and Dean saw the profound, isolating terror of a woman who was used to controlling everything, suddenly faced with the one thing she couldn't command. Dean took three steps into the office.
He didn't ask for permission. He didn't bow his head. He just held out his hands. "Let me take her." Diana stepped back, her grip tightening defensively. "Absolutely not.
You are a stranger." "I’m a dad," Dean corrected softly. "And you have a contract to read. Give me 20 minutes. If she’s not asleep by then, you can fire me." Diana stared at him. She looked at his tired eyes, his cheap clothes, his calloused hands.
She looked at her computer screen where a red notification bubble was blinking aggressively. Slowly, with a trembling hesitation that betrayed her exhaustion, she extended her arms. The moment Mia's weight transferred into Dean's arms, his muscle memory engaged. It was automatic. He didn't hold her at arm's length.
He pulled her flush against his chest, tucking her head securely under his chin, right against his heartbeat. He flattened his large, broad hand across her back, applying firm, even pressure. Mia screamed louder at the transition, outraged by the change in environment. Dean didn't flinch. He widened his stance.
He began to sway, not the frantic, jerky, bouncing Diana had been doing, but a deep, rhythmic, full-body, pendulum swing, side to side, dropping his weight slightly into his knees on each swing. Sway, drop, sway, drop. He leaned his head down, putting his mouth right next to her tiny, shell-like ear, and began the shush. It wasn't a gentle, polite shh. It was a loud, heavy, white-noise rush of air from his diaphragm.