Two months later, she had knocked on his office door.
Her voice had barely risen above a whisper when she said, “I’m pregnant.”
He hadn’t let her finish.
“I’ll take care of it,” he had said briskly, opening a drawer and pulling out a nondisclosure agreement. Along with a check with more zeros than she had ever seen.
“I’m not ready to be a father. I can’t afford this risk. Not now.”
She’d left in silence, tears in her eyes.
And he buried the memory under meetings, acquisitions, and hollow victories.
