“God damn it.” I jerk my hand away.
“I know it’s a bit of a shock,” she says. “And I’d wanted to tell you this privately, but I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks …”
Another flash follows.
And another.
Soon a half dozen paparazzo are gathered outside our window.
“You called them, didn’t you?” I ask through gritted teeth.
Within seconds, the restaurant manager dashes outside in her Chanel suit, shooing them away. But it’s too late. They’re going to sell that image of my hand on Tatum’s belly and it’s going to be all over social media this time tomorrow.
“I know how you feel about children, so I don’t expect you to be a doting dad or anything. But I do expect full financial support.” She takes a seat, and all I can think about is the life growing inside of her with half of my DNA.
Another branch in the Catalano family tree.
A half-sibling for Lucia.
While I never wanted to be a father in the traditional sense, I especially never wanted to be a father with Tatum. It never made sense why someone as self-centered as her would want to be responsible for another human life—until I met her mother.
Tatum was brought up with unlimited wealth and privilege and raised by nannies. Plural. She was an only child, but there was an entire team of people dedicated to ensuring she had everything she needed around the clock. They even had a night nanny on staff until the day she graduated from high school. If she woke up in the middle of the night, parched, she’d ring that nanny for a glass of sparkling water. Another nanny was actually a cosmetologist by trade, hired on part-time to do Tatum’s hair and makeup before school each day and for occasional special events.
Tatum was nothing more than a shiny doll on a shelf for her mother. A prized possession she could bring out at parties and show off to her friends. I’m convinced Tatum’s entire existence was based on bolstering her mother’s ego and reputation.
Tatum wouldn’t even know the first thing about raising a child.
She’s never kept a plant alive or owned a pet.
This woman couldn’t even raise a Cabbage Patch Kid if she tried.
“Do you want to go somewhere so we can discuss this alone?” Tatum asks.
Rising, I clench my jaw. “That won’t be necessary.”
I check my watch. I’m supposed to be in Culver City in an hour for a photoshoot, and even if my entire schedule was clear, I wouldn’t be caught dead alone with Tatum.
“We’ll let our lawyers sort this out.” I force a breath through flared nostrils.
“Wait.” She wraps her hand around my wrist. “You’re just going to leave?”
“What did you think would happen today? That I’d cry tears of joy and ask you to marry me again so we could be a family?” I chuff, freeing my wrist from her pathetic grip.
I’ll do everything in my power to ensure that child—if it even is my child—has a decent upbringing.
But right now, all I can think about is breaking the news to Rossi before she finds out on social media. If she was having doubts about me before, seeing a picture of me with my pregnant ex when I told her I was going home to take care of some business … is only going to compound her misgivings tenfold.
I can only imagine how Tatum’s PR team is going to paint this scenario, and within minutes of the “breaking news” going viral, there’ll be rumors of us getting back together as well as a plethora of fake blind items and gossip articles.
I get my silver Maybach from valet and head to the studio, assembling my thoughts and dreading the phone call I’m about to make with every passing second.
Chapter 27
Rossi
* * *
My phone buzzes on my desk Monday afternoon, but the last name I’m expecting to see flashing across it is Fabian.
He hasn’t called since he’s been home, though he texted me to let me know he landed yesterday. I was in the middle of feeding the baby, so I sent him a thumb’s up emoji in response. When I didn’t hear back after that, I figured he was just giving me space.
But it’s strange that he’s calling.
With a tightness in my throat, I press the green button and press the phone to my ear.
“Hey,” I say, neutral.
“Rossi, hi.” My name on his lips still sends a thrill down my spine, though it’s slightly less intense than it was a few days ago. With time, I’m hoping that little sensation fades altogether. “Do you have a minute to talk?”
My stomach hardens.
Those words are almost always a precursor to bad news in all forms.
“Yeah, what’s up?” I rise, perching next to the window. Outside, Dan washes his Lexus in his driveway sans shirt. He must’ve taken the afternoon off? I should ask him to wash my car when he’s done …