Page 213 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

All of it.

Even the parts that made me look like the villain.

I opened the car door and stepped out onto the street, my side protesting with a sharp spike of pain. I ignored it and walked up the pathway to the front porch.

My hand was shaking slightly as I raised it to knock.

But before my knuckles could connect with the wood, the door swung open.

And there she was.

Truth stood in the doorway wearing jeans and a loose sweater that did nothing to hide the small swell of her belly. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her face free of makeup, her eyes sharp and assessing.

She looked tired.

She looked angry.

She looked beautiful.

And before I could say a word—before I could apologize or explain or beg for forgiveness—her hand came up fast and connected with my face in a slap that made my ears ring.

The force of it snapped my head to the side, and I tasted blood where my teeth cut into my cheek.

“That’s for lying to me,” she said, her voice cold and steady. “Now come in and explain what the fuck is going on.”

I deserved that.

The thought came immediately, reflexively, as the sting spread across my cheek and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t raise my hand to my face. Didn’t protest.

I just stood there and took it.

Because she was right.

Ihadlied to her. By omission, by silence, by letting her believe I was just some guy who happened to cross her path at the park. By letting her think our connection was organic when it had been calculated from the start.

Not the feelings—those were real, fuck, those were the realest thing I’d felt in years—but the approach. The strategy. The manipulation.

I was complicit.

And she had every right to be furious.

“Okay,” I said quietly, my voice rougher than I intended.

Truth stepped back from the doorway, her eyes never leaving mine, and I followed her inside.

The house was small but clean. Modest. The kind of place someone chose when they were starting over. When they were building something new from the wreckage of what came before.

I thought about the house she’d lost in the divorce. The car. The credit score Phillip had destroyed. Everything she’d worked for, stripped away by a man who’d promised to love her.

And now she had this.

Her own space. Her own ground.

It wasn’t much, but it washers.

And that mattered more than any mansion or estate ever could.

She led me into the living room and sat on the couch, her posture rigid, her hands folded in her lap. I sat next to her, leaving a respectful distance between us, and felt the anger radiating off her in waves.