Scalding tears surged up. I bit down hard on my lip.
I'd found out about my pregnancy the same day I found out my husband had cheated.
Pathetic, Natalie. What is this? You're like a bad joke.
After a long moment, I slowly straightened from the door, shoved the test results in my pocket, and practically ran out of the hospital.
Outside, cold wind mixed with rain hit my face. I didn't open an umbrella. I just plunged into the downpour.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Richard: "Zurich meetings wrapped early. I'll be back in LA in a week. Need me to bring anything? Joseph says your appetite's been off."
A week... he planned to stay with Olivia for seven days.
I stared at those words, at my wrecked reflection in the screen, and suddenly remembered the first time I met Richard two years ago...
That day, I'd been scheduled for a lounge performance, but my father called last minute, demanding I attend a charity gala with him. He wanted to introduce me to the Winston family heir.
I knew what my father meant. He wanted me to marry this heir. And I knew if I refused, my father would have endless criticism and complaints. So before going, I'd planned exactly how to ruin that first impression.
But the second I walked into that gala, Richard consumed my entire field of vision.
He was incredibly tall, holding a champagne flute in those large-knuckled hands, hair slicked back perfectly, exposing his broad forehead and sharp brow bones and jawline, the tailored black tuxedo nearly straining across those broad shoulders.
Then Richard's gray-blue eyes landed on me.
Just that one look.
My heart stopped.
All those plans to sabotage the arrangement vanished completely. Only one raw thought remained.
I wanted him.
I knew I was done for. I'd fallen in love with Richard. Love made me willing to do anything for him.
Later, before the honeymoon even ended, he had his butler, Joseph, remove all my "inappropriate" clothes. Bright yellow dresses, patterned socks, sequined ballet flats—all gone.
"You need to adjust to the role of Mrs. Winston. Joseph will handle your wardrobe from now on," he said, fastening his cufflinks without even glancing at me. "Those childish clothes can stay at home."
But he was rarely home.
Our most frequent interactions happened at the dinner table, limited to weather and social schedules. He never asked what I'd done that day, didn't care what scent of perfume I'd secretly bought, and paid no attention to my preferences.
Our most intimate moments, as he'd said, were in the bedroom. Only then would those distant gray-blue eyes ignite with an almost consuming heat. His hands were strong, his body temperature burning. In those dizzying moments ruled by desire, I'd hallucinate that I was needed, that I was loved.
Not until today did I realize that was just lust. Physical instinct with nothing to do with love.
The screen went dark from lack of use.
I stood on the street, letting rain soak my hair and shoulders.
Fuck "dull." Fuck Mrs. Winston. I wanted to rush home right now and shred every white dress in that closet, then book the fastest flight out of Los Angeles.
But we had a child now. Why did it have to be now?
Rain or tears on my face—I couldn't tell anymore. But I'd bet anything that right now, I looked like a goddamn clown.
