Page 2 of His Surrender

My driver, Louis, is leaning against the black SUV when I step outside onto the street. The crisp fall New York City wind hits me and blows my tie just as he opens the door for me.

“Mr. Ledger,” he says with a nod.

“Thanks, Lou. Just going home for the evening.”

I slide onto the leather seat. The moment the door closes, my head falls back against the headrest.

I don’t remember ever being this tired before. I’ve worked back-to-back all-nighters before, and never once did it hit my body like this.

I could easily fall asleep on the drive home, but I know it’s not worth it. It’d just be a tease. A glimpse into what my body desperately needs but will not get.

Lou opens the door for me.

“I’ll see you on Monday, Lou. Take the weekend off.”

His eyes open wide. “Of course, Mr. Ledger. Enjoy your weekend.”

Right. Enjoy my weekend.

Instead of thinking too hard on that, I step into the private elevator that runs up to my penthouse. It takes me directly up to my floor.

For fifteen years, I have paid people to make sure my place looks exactly the way I like it. Cleaned, controlled, and quiet.

As I walk through the foyer, I see a stuffed giraffe lying in the middle of the floor. The kitchen has bottles soaking, and a burp cloth is draped over the back of a chair that cost more than most people’s monthly rent.

I don’t even bother picking anything up.

“You’re home.” Frieda steps out of the kitchen, keeping her voice low. “She finally fell asleep.”

I glance toward the living room, where the motorized swing rocks back and forth beside the windows overlooking Manhattan. Inside it is the little human who turned my entire life upside down seven days ago.

My two-month-old daughter, Liana.

She doesn’t even stir when I walk over and crouch beside the swing. Tiny fists rest near her cheeks; her dark eyelashes fanned against impossibly soft skin.

It’s still surreal that someone this small belongs to me. Seven days after meeting her, I haven’t gotten used to it. I’m not sure I ever will.

When the call came from Child Protective Services last Friday, I thought they had the wrong number.

Now I find myself memorizing every little detail about her—the swirl of dark hair at the crown of her head, the way her lips purse in her sleep, the small sigh she lets out every few minutes that somehow makes my own lungs work again.

“She had four ounces about an hour ago,” Frieda says quietly behind me. “She’ll probably wake in another forty-five minutes.”

I nod, even though I’m still pretending I know what four ounces is supposed to mean.

A week ago, I could’ve told you the revenue projections for every division of Ledger Technologies without opening a spreadsheet. Today, I’m celebrating because I remembered to warm a bottle without overheating it.

Frieda watches me with that same patient expression she’s worn since the day she arrived.

“Long day?” she asks, her soft voice covered with a hint of sympathy.

I exhale slowly. “The longest.”

She smiles knowingly. “You’re getting the hang of it.”

A tired laugh escapes me. “I’m getting the hang of surviving.”

Her smile fades. “I wish I could stay longer.”