reading for the past two months, careful to do it only when he’s been out of the house.
I drag myself up the stairs, my feet sluggish.
This is it.
He’s abandoned his magazine. His attention is fully focused on me. He sits up and eyes me with a raised brow. He knows something’s up.
I take a seat next to him, and hug the book tightly to my chest. It’s an old version — the one with the beautiful illustration of the sad looking, very pregnant woman in the pink dress, seated in an old-fashioned rocking chair. I’ve always wondered why she looked so sad. Shouldn’t she be happy? She’s expecting. But coincidentally, this is exactly how I feel at this moment…unbelievably sorrowed.
My heart is heavy as I lower my arms and set the book on my lap.
Confusion clouds his features as he looks down at the familiar cover. He looks up at me and I spot a sudden expression of panic on his face.
“I…I’ve been reading this lately,” I say simply, my throat tight and thick. My words are choppy, edgy…a complete mess.
He stares blankly at the book. I don’t think it has quite settled in yet.
The tears flow down my cheeks as I tell him, “I’ve been reading it secretly. I didn’t want you to know.”
Suddenly, sorrow washes over him. I can see it so clearly on his face, my heart sinks.
“But…” he says. “That’s impossible…” he trails off as his mind slowly draws the only conclusion it can.
He looks up at me, and the look in his eyes will haunt me forever.
Forever.
“No,” is all he says.
I bow my head and let myself fall into full-on sobbing. “I-I’m so sorry.”
He jerks to his feet so fast, the sofa bounces.
“How the fuck,” he snaps. “How could you let this happen, Mirella?”
I brace myself for the onslaught. I’ve expected it and it’s here. A small part of me is afraid, but the more sensible part of me knows he would never hurt me. He loves me too much, and he’s never laid a hand on me before.
He scrapes his hands down his face, bowing to the floor. He turns away from me and doesn’t utter another word. I desperately want him to say something.
Anything.
I blow out a breath, willing myself to try to explain. “I’m so sorry, Gabe. It was unexpected.”
He turns back to me. “Unexpected?” he hisses, the word laced with hatred and disgust. “I bet it wasn’t. I bet you wanted this. You wanted the prick’s baby in you.”
I close my eyes and remind myself he’s angry.
“You probably threw the damn pills in the toilet.”
“No.”
“Did the asshole not wear a rubber?” he scoffs. “He went on and on about that. I always did, Mirella. Bridget and I followed the rules. Why didn’t you?”
I can’t find the words to answer him. He’s right. We didn’t follow the rules. We’ve broken so many I’ve lost track.
His expression seems to soften, for a second. “Does he know? About the baby?”
I can’t quite look at him. “No. I haven’t told him.”
He laughs. His loud edgy cackle makes me shudder. “Oh, I see. Well, I’d love to see his face when he finds out. If I remember right, the guy was pretty wound up about the whole birth control thing. I wonder what he’ll think about you fucking up his perfect little life.”
Gabe’s words cut me. They ring too true. We both know this won’t be news Weston will want to hear.
“Guys like him…,” he goes on, “they have perfect lives with beautiful trophy wives but that’s not enough for them. They need to get some ass on the side too. They need a fucking whore.”
My stomach sinks at his words. I suddenly want to vomit. He’s being so cruel, but I know it’s because he’s hurt. But he’s right. I’ve always been Weston’s little whore — his play-thing.
“And it’s one thing for the wife to get accidently pregnant,” Gabe plows on, contempt written all over his face, “but it’s another when the whore gets knocked up. The man’s going to go fucking ape-shit.”
I try to swallow the lump in my throat, try to stop the tears. I don’t want him to see he’s getting to me. I don’t want him to know I agree with what he’s saying. I know Weston will be furious. He won’t like this. Weston Hanson does not like the unexpected. He hates curve balls. This is the kind of man who has his day planned, down to the last minute.