Marrying My Secret Baby Daddy - Chapter #6 - by Tessa Kelwyn

POV Audrey

The black Valentino dress is a weapon, and I'm about to commit murder.

Or at least finally a successful attempt to drive away Shane Reed.

Plunging V neckline that dives toward dangerous territory. Completely bare back held together by delicate gold chains at my neck and waist.

The kind of dress that makes men walk into walls and women question their marriages.

I'd chosen it in fury while dressing—imagining Shane Reed choking on his champagne, imagining Seattle's elite clutching their pearls. This merger he's orchestrating with my grandfather? This theft of my company disguised as matrimony?

He deserves every inch of discomfort this dress will cause.

Standing outside Belltown Gallery, I catch my reflection in the glass doors. The dress that felt like armor in my bedroom now feels like a suicide mission.

Too late to run. Shane's already approaching through the entrance.

"Audrey." His professional composure lasts exactly three seconds—the time it takes his gaze to drop from my face to the neckline.

He catches himself, looks away toward a nearby sculpture, then gravitates back like a magnet fighting its own polarity. His jaw tightens. His gaze lifts to my face with visible effort, only to slip again.

"You're allowed to look," I say, leaning into his discomfort with a laugh that sounds more confident than I feel. "We're practically engaged, aren't we? So tell me, Shaney-darling… What would you like to do with your future wife this evening?"

The question lands exactly as intended. Shane Reed—the man who negotiates billion-dollar deals without blinking—actually stutters. His pupils dilate. The pulse in his throat hammers visibly.

"I thought we might— Cyrus has outdone himself, and the…" He stops, swallows hard. "The installations..."

"Yes?" I tilt my head, letting my hair fall over one shoulder, exposing the long line of my bare neck. "What about them?"

He stops, visibly recalibrating. "Shall we?"

His hand moves to guide me forward, hovering at my lower back, and I hear his sharp intake of breath as he registers the exposed skin, the delicate chains—and what lies between them.

The constellation tattoo sprawling across my lower back—stars spelling audax in Latin, "brave"—is fully visible above the chains.

"That tattoo." His voice drops an octave, urgent and strange. "When did you… How long have you had it?"

"Since senior year." I glance over my shoulder, watching something dark and desperate flash across his face. "Teenage rebellion. Grandfather threatened to disown me. Said permanent mistakes have permanent consequences, which was rich coming from a man who once drunkenly bought a yacht he can't even sail."

Shane's eyes haven't left my back. The intensity of his attention prickles across my skin.

"Why? Do you have a thing for tattoos, Mr. Reed?"

His thumb brushes the lowest star, just above where the chains rest against my waist, and I have to bite my lip to suppress a shiver.

"I have others," I whisper, turning to face him, standing close enough that my breath ghosts across his jaw. "Hidden in much more... interesting places. Places that require very specific positions to see properly. If you behave yourself tonight, you might eventually see them…"

His control snaps for just a second. His hand tightens on my waist, pulling me against him before he catches himself.

But in that moment, I feel exactly how affected he is, the hard line of his body pressed against mine, the way his chest rises and falls like he's been running.

"You're playing with fire, Ms. Lennox," he says against my ear, his voice a dark promise that makes the heat pool low in my belly.

"I’m not scared to burn."

"Shane!" A voice breaks the spell. "There you are!"

We spring apart like guilty teenagers. The reaction sends a thrill of satisfaction through me. Shane Reed, retreating from a woman he barely remembers from high school.

If only Jennifer Whitmore could see this moment.

A man approaches with knowing eyes and an amused smile, taking in our flushed faces and the way Shane's hand still hovers possessively near my hip. Dark curls, paint-stained fingernails despite the formal attire, an easy smile.

"And this must be the infamous Audrey Lennox. I'm Cyrus—the artist, the friend, the voice of reason Shane ignores at every opportunity."

"Cyrus, your work is extraordinary," I gushed, gesturing toward the nearest piece. "I've always loved sculptures made from recycled materials. The environmental statement is so powerful, don't you think?"

Cyrus's smile freezes. These are clearly hand-blown glass pieces, luminous and delicate, nothing recycled about them. Shane's jaw tightens.

"The glass actually comes from…" Cyrus begins.

"Oh, I simply must get a closer look!"

I'm already moving toward a pedestal, fingers extended toward the translucent spiral despite the obvious "Do Not Touch" sign.

The moment my hand enters the proximity zone, an alarm shrieks through the gallery.

Every head turns. Attendants rush forward. Cyrus looks physically pained while Shane smoothly redirects attention, murmuring something about the sensitivity of the security system.

"So sorry!" I announce to no one in particular. "I just wanted to feel the texture. Art should be experienced with all the senses, don't you agree?"

The evening becomes a sustained assault on Shane's composure. I loudly critique pieces using completely incorrect terminology, calling abstract expressionism "post-modern minimalism" with stunning confidence.

I take flash photos despite the no-photography signs, explaining to a horrified attendant that I want to remember Shane's "art phase" for our future children.

"The way this piece captures the synergy between commerce and creativity—" I gesture dramatically while backing up.

Not noticing the pedestal behind me until I'm already colliding with it.

The sculpture teeters. I stumble. Shane's arms catch both me and the expensive glass installation in a single fluid motion, his chest solid against my back, his breath warm against my ear.

"Perhaps," he says quietly, "we should find you a stationary viewing position."

The society photographer appears before I can respond, requesting a photo of the happy couple. Shane's hand settles on my lower back for stability—fingers brushing the edge of my tattoo—as I accept my third glass of champagne.

When my phone explodes with calls, I step away from Shane to answer. Astrid's voice carries panic that turns my blood to ice.

"Oliver crashed skateboarding with his friends. They think his leg might be broken. We're heading to Seattle Children's Hospital now, and he's asking for you, and I didn't know whether to call immediately or wait until—"

"I'm coming." The words come out strangled. "Tell him I'm coming right now."

My playful mask shatters. The champagne glass trembles in my hand as I set it blindly on the nearest surface.

"Audrey." Shane's voice cuts through my panic. "What's wrong? You've gone completely pale. Is there something I can help with?"

Before I can deflect, a child nearby—maybe six years old, dragged to this event by parents more interested in networking than supervision—knocks directly into a small installation.

The crash brings attendants running, glass scattering across the polished floor while the child wails.

"Christ…" Shane mutters, and there’s something like disgust in his voice. "Who brings children to galleries? That's exactly the kind of chaos nobody sane would want."

The comment lands like a blade between my ribs.

This man—who just dismissed children as insanity, as chaos no reasonable person would tolerate—can never know about Oliver.

My son, who practices businessman faces in mirrors and asks why billboards look like him.

My son, who right now is crying for his mother while his unknown father sneers at a simple child's accident.

"I have to go." I'm already moving toward the exit. "Family emergency. Send my apologies to Cyrus."

"Audrey, wait! Let me at least call you a car, or—"

But I'm gone, leaving Shane confused on the gallery steps while I race toward my son. The Seattle night swallows me whole, and I think: Oliver deserves better than a father who sees children as inconveniences.

Oliver deserves better than a man who would have never wanted him.

Some secrets aren't just worth keeping. Some secrets are the only protection we have left.