Sir, She's Gone With Their Daughter And Never Returns

The steam in the master bathroom of the Manhattan penthouse was thick, clinging to the marble walls and making the air heavy. Calleigh stood by the double vanity, her fingers wrapped tightly around a warm, damp towel.

He stripped off his dress shirt, the muscles in his broad back shifting with the sharp movement, before leaning over the sink to splash cold water onto his face.

Calleigh took a shallow breath, trying to steady the rapid thumping in her chest. She stepped forward and held out the towel.

Hakeem took it without looking at her. He dragged the cotton across his jaw, his movements sharp and dismissive.

"Hakeem," Calleigh started, her voice barely above a whisper. "Lily's follow-up appointment is next week. The doctors need to..."

His jaw tightened instantly. He tossed the towel into the wicker hamper. It hit the bottom with a dull thud.

"I have three board meetings next week, Calleigh," he said, his voice a flat, hard line. "I don't have time for this right now."

Her stomach plummeted. She bit the inside of her cheek, tasting the familiar metallic tang of blood. "But the bone marrow registry. We haven't heard anything, and her white blood cell count is dropping. I just need you to call the center."

Hakeem turned away, stepping out of the bathroom and into the massive walk-in closet. He reached for the rack, his fingers brushing past several ties before he yanked a dark blue silk one from the hanger.

Calleigh followed him, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. "You missed her last three check-ups. She asks for you every night."

Hakeem let out a short, humorless laugh. He looped the silk tie around his neck, his fingers pulling the knot tight with a violent jerk. "Stop using the kid to hold me hostage. I provide everything for this house. Do you know how many people rely on me at the firm?"

Her throat burned. The edges of her vision blurred with hot moisture. "She doesn't care about the firm. She's four years old, Hakeem. She just wants her father."

Hakeem stopped adjusting his tie. He reached into the inner pocket of his tailored suit jacket and pulled out a leather-bound checkbook.

He uncapped a gold pen. The scratching sound of the nib against the paper was loud in the quiet room. He ripped the slip of paper out and let it flutter down onto the glass surface of the vanity.

"There," Hakeem said, not making eye contact. "Five hundred thousand. That's your allowance for the month. Hire another specialist. Buy her whatever toys she wants. Handle it yourself."

Calleigh stared at the numbers written in black ink. Her hands started to shake. A cold sweat broke out across her neck.

"Her life isn't something you can buy off, Hakeem," she said, her voice shaking.

He opened his mouth, his eyes narrowing into a glare, but before he could speak, a soft piano melody cut through the tension.

It was