“Okay, girl,” Bec said when I came back inside the apartment. “You need to spill all the details.”

She’d slid down and taken over my chair, so I plunked onto the couch with a sigh.

“There’s not much to tell.”

A snort was my only response.

“Look, I’m—”

I was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Oh, come on universe,” I muttered, pushing to my feet and moving to answer it.

“It’s me.” Seraphina’s voice was muffled. “The code’s not working.”

I opened the door. “That’s because I changed it.”

She breezed into the apartment, bending to kiss my check. “Because of the suits?”

I turned, glared at Bec, who shrugged as if to say, “I called her, so what?” She was still reading the documents and didn’t bother to look up at us.

“Because of Jordan,” I said. “He memorized the code and decided to let himself in.”

Her brows pulled down, but she nodded. “So what’s the new one?”

I told her and she smiled. “That was a good date.”

“The best,” Bec agreed.

It was cheesy, but I’d chosen the night of our senior prom. We’d all gone to the same private school and had blown off our jerks of dates to hang out together instead. We’d busted a few moves—and not very good ones at that—on the dance floor, only giving our aching, heel-wearing feet a break during the slow songs.

It had been goofy and fun and . . . one of the most enjoyable nights of my high school experience.

“Well,” I said. “I ran out of good number combos and that one always sticks with me.”

“Me too.” Seraphina grinned. “Especially since I almost flashed the entire senior class.”

“Strapless dresses aren’t the best option for you,” Bec agreed.

“Neither is dancing to Queen Bey’s anthems in said strapless dresses,” I added.

“That I learned the hard way,” Seraphina said, and we all broke into giggles. She’d caught the dress before she’d fully popped out, but unfortunately, her girls wouldn’t pop back in as easily.

We’d done some sort of crab walk, mad scramble to the bathroom, guarding her assets, and hadn’t been able to get everything back into proper alignment until she’d been unzipped, secured, and then rezipped.

I didn’t envy her breasts for anything.

“Plus, I can afford better bras nowadays,” she said with a laugh. “And I learned that strapless shouldn’t be my first choice.”

“The boys were disappointed by that.” Bec smirked.

Seraphina snorted. “I’m sure they were.” Her eyes met mine. “Nice try to distract us from the real issue, Ms. Abby, but it’s time to dish. What’s going on?”

I tilted my head to Bec. “Why doesn’t the hotshot attorney tell me? I’m guessing it’s not great.”

“You’re right,” Bec said, putting the folder down. “He wants a paternity test—”

Well that wasn’t a big deal—

“—and if he’s proven to be the father, he wants full custody.”

“What the fuck?” Seraphina said, but I hardly heard her.

Blood pounded in my ears, and my fingers went numb. “No,” I said. “Hell, no.”

Bec nodded. “That is definitely a hell no. But you know what this means.”

I nodded. “Image is everything.”

“Yup.”

“I need a job.” I sighed. “And a nicer apartment.”

“You should call your dad,” Seraphina said, then raised her hands in surrender when I glared at her. “I know, I know. And I get it, but if this is about jockeying for position and image, wouldn’t it be better to have Bernie Roberts on your side?”

“Except he’s never on my side for anything,” I grumbled.

“There is that,” Bec said, leaning back in the armchair and tucking her feet up underneath her. “I propose this. I’ll put together a counter contract, and you’ll use your trust fund to find a nicer apartment. Or hell, buy a house. Bernie can’t rent control that.”

“Oh!” Seraphina clapped her hands together. “I like it.”

Bec rolled her eyes. “You’re a goof.” Then to me, she said, “In the meantime, keep the job hunt up and if you don’t find anything in the next two weeks to a month, then you talk to your father.”

“Fine,” I said, “be perfectly reasonable, why don’t you?”

I didn’t like the idea of opening up the can of worms that was my trust fund—it was my father’s money, after all—but if I was going to use it for anything, I figured that it should be for my child.

“Being perfectly reasonable is my job,” Bec said.

Seraphina and I both laughed. Bec waved us off.

“Okay, enough of that. Let’s order takeout and watch a Hallmark movie.”

“I’ll make popcorn,” Seraphina said and headed into the kitchen.

“Are you sure you have time for this?” I asked Bec. She was months away from making partner at her law firm and I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize her chances.

She rubbed her hands together. “Are you kidding? You know I live for this sort of thing. Mr. Jordan O’Keith is going to be drowning in paperwork.”

“O’Keith?” I repeated, stomach dropping to my feet. “Please tell me that isn’t his last name.”

She opened the file again and studied it closely. “I can’t do that.” A pause as she glanced up. “Who is Jordan O’Keith?” Her eyes widened. “Oh. Oh. No. Abby, you didn’t!”

“I didn’t know!” I scrambled to my feet, running for the bedroom and my laptop. “Maybe it’s a different one? That’s a common name, right?” I pleaded, coming back into the living room, computer in hand.

Seraphina popped her head out of the kitchen. “What is it?”

I opened the browser, typed in “George O’Keith + Son” into the search bar.

“Oh, fuck,” Bec said when the page loaded. “Your dad is going to kill you.”

“He is so going to kill me,” I agreed.

On the screen was a line of photographs of my father’s mortal enemy.

In some of them, he was hugging Jordan, and seeing the two men side by side brought out their similar features.

Same eyes. Same hair color. Same build. Same smarmy personality.

Fuck my life.