Page 71 of The Decoy

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Ellis

It’s been a few weeks since my baby shower, and even in that time, I feel like my body has changed even more. I’m carrying twenty extra pounds, my lower back twinges with a constant dull ache, and my feet are slightly swollen in my Italian leather heels, but I’ve never felt more entirely in command of my life.

I’m trying to work up to my due date as much as I can, so I can actually enjoy time off when he’s born. And work has been as busy as ever.

Over the past two weeks, my Overtime division finalized four massive, multi-million-dollar endorsement deals for professional athletes. As the executive who negotiates every clause, guarantees every bonus structure, and secures final creative approval, I’m not about to sit in my home office and watch the commercial shoots from a live stream. So I show up in person. That’s how I operate. In my world, visibility is currency, and I refuse to cede control over a shoot that has my signature on every contract.

I structured today’s production call sheet down to the minute specifically to avoid unnecessary friction or overlap. Dylan was scheduled for the early morning block. According to the master schedule I had personally drafted and approved, Dylan should be completely wrapped, packed up, and off the studio set by now.

I’d purposefully timed my arrival for eleven fifteen, giving myself a buffer before Brody’s eleven-thirty call time. I have zero desire to cross paths with Dylan, but I’m certainly not going to let his presence dictate how I manage my business.

“Ellis! Thank god you’re here,” the production director greets me anxiously, rushing over with a headset dangling around his neck and a tablet tucked under his arm.

“Steve,” I say smoothly, stopping near the main monitoring rig and checking the clock on my phone. “Where are we on the transition between sets? Brody Vaughn’s call time is in fifteen minutes, and as I mentioned, he’s in OTAs right now, so he can’t be stuck in the city with studio delays. He has to be back in Jersey no later than three p.m.”

“I know, I know,” Steve sighs, rubbing his forehead, already looking exhausted. “Ellis…I’m sorry nobody notified you of the updated call sheet. We ran into a complete nightmare on block one.”

I raise an eyebrow, my gaze sweeping over the bustling studio floor, taking in the chaotic movement of camera grips, wardrobe stylists, and lighting technicians. “What kind of nightmare?”

“Boone’s team had twenty different notes on his wardrobe, and then he threw a diva fit on camera. He insisted on re-shooting his opening line six separate times because he didn’t like how his jawline looked in the side-profile monitor,” Steve explains, lowering his voice. “He was supposed to be wrapped and out the door before you arrived, but we’re literally finishing now.”

“No,” I say, my voice level and smooth. “No one notified me.”

I don’t flinch. I don’t turn around and walk back to my waiting car. Instead, I walk around Steve and look toward the center of the soundstage, and that’s when I see him.

Dylan is standing under the lights, leaning casually against a custom ice-rink prop wall. He’s holding a bottle of Overtime and wearing black athletic training gear, his toned, lean upper body the kind of build you see on a professional hockey player. He’s tall, polished, and conventionally handsome in a shallow, symmetrical way that has lost any sliver of appeal on me. He’s in the middle of a fake, theatrical move: taking a long drink from his bottle, then flashing his million-dollar smile for the lens.

The floor director shouts, “Cut! That’s a wrap on block one for Boone. Clear the set for setup two.”

The overhead studio lights change as crew members swarm the floor to move monitors, haul thick black cables, and switch the set from a hockey rink to a football field in front of a greenscreen.

Dylan steps away, grabs a plush white towel from an eager production assistant, and wipes his neck as he turns toward the exit.

His eyes sweep casually across the room and land directly on me.

He stops in his tracks. The towel hovers mid-air as his smug, polished expression fractures instantly into a dark mix of shock, then arrogance. His eyes fall to my stomach—to the very obvious swell of the child growing inside me.

I stand my ground in the middle of the studio, my posture confident, my shoulders back, my chin held high. I watch him approach with detached amusement as he tosses his towel carelessly onto a folding chair and begins walking straight toward me, his stride aggressive.

“Ellis,” he spits, his voice laced with venom as he stops in front of me. He keeps his back partially turned to the main crew, but he’s close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne. “What the hell are you doing here?

“Uh, my job, Dylan,” I reply calmly, my tone controlled. “You know that it’s my job to oversee production.”

His eyes dart around the crowded studio, checking to see if anyone is within earshot before fixing back on me. His upper lip curls in genuine disgust as he looks down at my bump again, shaking his head.

“Look at you,” he scoffs bitterly, a mocking laugh bubbling up from his chest. “Jesus Christ, Ellis. You look like a barn. You’re really doing this, aren’t you?”

A lesser woman might recoil. A weaker woman might feel the sting of a man rejecting his own flesh and blood with such vicious and unprovoked spite. But I’ve been raised in New York City’s cutthroat elite. Words from a boy like Dylan Boone hold zero weight in my world.

“Honestly, Dylan, this little temper tantrum routine of yours isn’t nearly as cute as you think it is,” I say smoothly, tilting my head with a slow, condescending smile that makes him look small and pathetic. “You’re acting like a temperamental rookie who just got benched in the third period, and frankly, it’s gross. Save your dramatic outbursts for your agent.”

Dylan’s jaw tightens, his skin flushing red with anger as my words hit their mark with precision. He takes a step closer, leaning in, his voice dropping into a harsh, cruel whisper that vibrates with malice.

“Don’t give me your elitist, self-righteous bullshit,” he sneers, his eyes narrowing. “You got knocked up, realized I wasn’t going to let you ruin my hockey career or trap me into an eighteen-year commitment, so you went running to the first dumb, baller you could find.”

He lets out another harsh, mocking laugh, a sound that vibrates with transparent insecurity.