I couldn’t keep my job, I couldn’t keep my insurance.
It wasn’t like I had a whole lot of money saved up. I lived with my sister in an 800-sq foot apartment in the Valley, for fuck’s sake.
My life was not set up for this, which was why I insisted on a condom in the first place. Maybe it was better if I just dealt with the problem as quickly and inexpensively as possible. I could go back to being a regular person, dating in search of Mr. Right, Happily Ever After and a slew of babies who were all planned and well provided for.
I mean, there was a very slim chance Christopher might be excited to be a dad, but I doubted it. He was in his mid-twenties but had emotionally stalled at 18. And if he ever did want a kid, it wouldn’t be with someone like me. He likely lived in fear that it might slip at the office we’d slept together. He couldn’t call me by my first name, even after seeing me naked.
In the unlikely event that he did want to man up about it, if that was even possible, there was chance of a happily ever after here. I didn’t love him. I didn’t even like him. Did I really want to spend the next eighteen years plus tied to him, deferring to him on decisions on how to raise my kid? This is the same guy who once tried to justify hopping the fence at some starlet’s home to peek into her bedroom window, just to get the jump on verifying a rumor that she was dating her producer. He believed the means justified the ends and everyone was collateral damage, especially the kids of the rich and famous.
At this point, an abortion might just spare the both of us.
I sighed. “I suppose I still have some time to think about it.” I was only six weeks pregnant. The window to terminate the pregnancy and get back to my regularly scheduled programming was still open. “We’ll call that plan B,” I decided.
“You’ll know more after Monday,” she agreed, referring to the first day on my new job interviewing The Duke.
After spending much of my weekend on the floor of my bathroom, I wondered if my “choice” was being made for me. My body was launching a serious protest about this new development. By Sunday night, I was eating nothing but crackers and plain broth, washing it down with flat ginger ale.
I got up an hour early Monday morning, bracing for another forty-five-minute barf-a-thon, using every trick in the book to pull myself together. I even broke out full makeup, otherwise I would have looked like a walking corpse. Fern filled my bag with bottles of water and bags of plain, unsalted crackers. She also included a few of my mother’s super healthy protein bites, just in case I felt a little weak.
Since I’d already passed out at the office, twice, I figured it was a smart thing to keep on hand. I didn’t want to crumble at Auggie’s feet, but I supposed The Duke of Mayhem was probably used to that sort of thing.
When I emerged to the street that morning, the car sat at the curb, with the chauffeur who was meant to be invisible standing silently beside the open door.
“Good morning,” I said, but he merely tipped his hat, which covered the face he kept downward. I slipped into the back and he closed the door behind me. Within a few minutes we were off.
I spent the few hours it took to return to Fifty Oaks to alternately research Aldayne’s royal history and take notes on the kinds of questions I wanted to ask. It was a slow process, considering that focusing on the tiny text on my phone didn’t really mix well with the movement of the car. I went through nearly a whole bag of crackers to keep from puking out the window of the fine automobile in which I happened to be traveling.
The Alda was an import from Aldayne, a luxury sedan in a rich black that sparkled almost purple under the light. Purple and black were the country’s colors, as noted on their round flag. From what I read, it had to do with Aldayne’s biggest export, aldrite, created by the volcano that now lay dormant on its northern shore. The unique purple and black crystal volcanic rock produced a mineral that even in small quantities could power