The Swap - Robyn Harding Page 0,69

blush of remembrance. We were here on business. A child’s future hung on this encounter.

“What’s up?” he said, matching his wife’s cool but accepting presentation.

Brian spoke directly to Max. “We just got an anonymous e-mail with a link to your paternity case. The one where you stated—in court—that you’re sterile.”

Max’s handsome face turned into a scowl. “Who sent you that?”

“Someone who thought we should know that the baby”—Brian gestured toward Freya’s bump—“isn’t yours.”

I turned to Freya then. “Is it Brian’s child?” My words wobbled with emotion. And cautious optimism.

But Freya ignored me and turned to Brian. “Max lied in court. That slut was trying to get money out of him. It seemed the easiest solution.”

“The paternity test proved it wasn’t Max’s baby,” Brian countered.

“Yeah, because he didn’t sleep with her,” Freya snapped back. “Not because he’s sterile.”

My husband turned to Max. “So you never had complications from mumps? You lied about all of it?”

“I had mumps,” Max stated. “And I had complications. But I’m not sterile. I just have lower-than-average fertility.”

“We have sex every day,” Freya said. “Sometimes twice.” She looked at Brian with a disdain. “We still have a higher chance of conception than one lame night with you.”

I was simultaneously relieved and insulted that Freya considered my husband a lousy lay. But that was irrelevant right now. “There’s an easy way to solve this,” I said. “You can take a paternity test.”

“Fuck you,” Freya barked. “I’m not risking my baby getting stuck with a needle to put your mind at ease.”

“There are noninvasive ways to test paternity in utero,” I said. “They can take your blood and extract the baby’s DNA from it. It’s perfectly safe.”

Freya looked at me, her lip curled into a sneer. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

She’d sensed my hope, but I was far from loving this. “Yeah, it’s wonderful,” I snapped. “My best friend is pregnant with my husband’s child, and she’s been lying about it for months.”

“I told you it’s not his fucking baby! You’re so desperate to be a mother that you’re trying to steal my child. You’re sick. You’re pathetic.”

Anger welled up inside of me and made my voice shake. “Then prove it,” I said. “Because if the baby is Brian’s, it will be a hell of a lot better off having me for a mother than you!”

Freya’s eyes widened with shock, and her face paled with chagrin. My words were cruel, they would irrevocably destroy our friendship. But it felt good to stand up to her, to hurt her even. She thought I was weak and cowardly. She thought I worshipped her so much that I’d cave in, back down. But I would fight for the truth about this baby.

She took a step back as if I’d slapped her.

“Oh shit,” she said. “I think my water just broke.”

I saw the wet patch on her designer maternity jeans, watched it spread down her legs. “It’s too early,” I said, my voice hoarse.

“Fuck,” Max muttered.

“Is it too early?” Brian asked. “If the baby’s mine, you’re only a couple weeks from your due date.”

“It’s not fucking yours!” Freya screeched, her face red, eyes wild. She was hunched over, clutching her belly. She looked angry. And terrified.

“We need to go to the hospital,” Max said, putting his arm around his wife’s shoulders.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, tears pricking my eyes. Had my verbal attack caused premature labor? Was the baby in jeopardy because I couldn’t control my rage? “Can I do anything? Does she have her bag packed?”

“Stay the fuck away from me, Jamie!” Freya yelled as Max grabbed a small case from the front closet and escorted her to the door. “You’re not getting anywhere near me, or my baby!”

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We took my car; Brian had parked directly behind Freya’s white Range Rover. The hospital was only a fifteen-minute drive from our home, but Freya’s contractions seemed to be pretty intense. At least, that’s what I could deduce from the vitriol she spewed at me through gritted teeth.

“You sent that fucking e-mail, didn’t you? You told Jamie that it’s not your baby.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You’re the only one who knows I slept with Brian! It has to be you, you fucking traitor!”

“It wasn’t. You must have told someone.”

“Who would I tell? I have no one here!” Then she let out a fierce, guttural scream as a contraction hit her.

“Breathe,” I said.

“Fuck you!” she responded.

When the pain had passed, she continued her rant. “You never wanted this baby! You’re trying to give it away!”

“I’m not,” I