The older-looking of his lawyer team slides a folder to Steen, who flips it open and scans the top document.
“Is this a joke?” Steen asks, sliding the folder to his partner. “A million dollars?”
A million? I make that in my fucking sleep.
“You do realize Mr. Catalano is worth hundreds of millions—and your actions have adversely affected the rest of his life,” Steen adds.
“All due respect, Mr. Catalano knew exactly what he was getting into when he first made his donation sixteen years ago. While the breach is unfortunate, it doesn’t change the fact that he was okay with the prospect of having a child or children out there who he’ll never know about.”
Farber clears her throat, tapping her glossy power-red nails on the folder. “This isn’t about that. Obviously our client knew what he was getting into when he signed on for this. This is about the recipient knowing the name of her donor and that donor being one of the richest athletes in the world. There’s a lot at stake for Mr. Catalano. She could make things extremely complicated for him if she wanted to. With cancel culture in the media lately, a single unflattering interview could affect his reputation—which would trickle down to endorsement deals and sponsorships and—”
Wickham’s first lawyer lifts a palm. “Yes, okay. We understand that. The issue is Dr. Wickham’s insurance company places limits on what they’ll pay out. In this case, they were only willing to pay a hundred grand. But because of who you are, Dr. Wickham is willing to front the other nine hundred from his personal funds. In our opinion, it’s an extremely generous gesture—one he isn’t legally obligated to do. And while we all know you’re not in need of the money, this is our best and final offer.”
“Everything’s negotiable.” Steen chuffs, shooting Farber a knowing glance.
“If you want to draw this out despite the fact that your client has no need for any of it, then by all means,” his second lawyer chimes in. “But I’d highly recommend putting this to bed so we can all move on.”
“How’d this happen anyway?” I interject. “Who’s responsible for sending that letter?”
Rhonda steeples her fingers. “It was a new hire. She’d only been on the job a few days. Somehow she cross-referenced your address with the recipient’s address. Even she was shocked at the error. Carelessness, I assume. We have no reason to believe it was intentional. In fact, she’s the one who realized the mistake after the mail had gone out. She came to me immediately.”
“This employee is no longer with the clinic,” Dr. Wickham adds, messing with the pen in his jacket pocket.
I never met him back in the day. I dealt only with his office staff and the nurses who took my blood and processed my donation. I’d seen his face on a business card by the front desk once. Nice smile. Lots of letters after his name. That’s about all I recall.
“I don’t want the settlement,” I say.
Farber taps my hand and mutters something I can’t hear.
“No,” I say. “I want part of that money to go into a college account for the child. And I want the rest to go into a trust for her. On top of that, I’d like a little extra for the mother.”
“We’re currently in the process of negotiating a separate settlement with her,” Wickham’s first lawyer says. He raps his meaty knuckles against the table top.
“Similar terms to what you’re offering me?” I ask.
His team exchanges looks before the second one answers, “We’re not at liberty to discuss another patient’s settlement with you. I’m sorry, Mr. Catalano.”
I should be back in LA right now, practicing for next week’s Rosemont Open, not sitting here banging my head against the wall with a bunch of apes. Dragging in a ragged breath, I grab a fistful of hair before rising and shoving the chair out from under me.
“Where are you going?” Steen asks.
“Getting some air.” Abandoning the conference room, I storm toward the first exit I see—and wind up in the rear parking lot, stopping short in front of a sapphire blue Subaru with an empty gray car seat in the back.
“Shoot.” A soft voice steals my attention, and when I follow the sound, I find a curvy brunette in skin-tight black leggings that stop just below her calves, a white tank top that scoops low enough in the front to showcase her generous tits, and a faded jean jacket cuffed at her elbows. In a haphazard rush, she gathers the strewn contents of her spilled purse from the sidewalk—lip gloss, car keys, hand sanitizer, Kleenex, wet wipes, a packet of pureed applesauce ...
Crouching, her silky chocolate waves spill down her shoulders, hiding her face, and the sunglasses that were perched on the top of her head tumble off, skidding across the concrete.
I seize a bullet of lipstick from the grass—and her scratched sunglasses.
And then I wait.
By the time she’s finished, she reaches for the top of her head, feeling around before scrunching her nose when she realizes her glasses are gone.
“Looking for these?” I wave, her belongings in my grip.
Sucking in a stunned breath, the woman gazes up at me with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, so blue they can’t possibly be of this world, so icy and vibrant I lose my train of thought. Framed with a fringe of thick dark lashes, she peers up at me and quickly looks away—the way most people do when they recognize me.
“Thanks.” Biting a full, rose-colored lower lip, she rises and takes the lipstick and glasses from my hand. “There’s an uneven crack in the sidewalk back there, so be careful …”
“Will do.”
Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she steals another glimpse at me before fishing her keys from her bag and striding toward the sapphire Subaru with the baby seat in back.
“You’re Fabian Catalano, aren’t you?” she asks before she climbs inside.
Most people typically don’t ask that—they just know. Regardless, I nod and pray she doesn’t ask what the hell I’m doing at a fertility clinic outside Chicago. This is how blind items and TMZ articles get started. Last thing I need is some nosy internet sleuth digging into my business because they saw some gossipy post on Instagram.
Without another word—and before she has a chance to ask for a selfie with me—I shove my hands in my pockets and strut down the sidewalk, ensuring I avoid the place that caused her to take a spill.
“Wait,” she calls.
I turn around and spot her leaning against her car, arms folded casually across her chest as she examines me.
“I don’t do pictures. Sorry.” I turn away when she calls out again.
“I don’t want a picture.” She steps toward me, her white Adidas scuffing against the pavement. “I just … this is going to sound weird, but I just wanted to thank you.”
Facing her again, my gaze narrows. “For what?”
We’re separated now by a handful of feet, and I find myself momentarily distracted by her pointy chin, her delicate nose, that rosy pout, and those hooded, hypnotic blues. She isn’t like the women back in LA. I swear there’s a legion of clones, all of them with the same overfilled lips, the same wavy blonde extensions, the same fluffy lashes, and expressionless, Botoxed faces.