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“This is Amanda,” comes that frosty voice.
“Hi Amanda,” I say tentatively. “It’s Katie Martin—I planned the event at Mr. Moore’s home two months ago? I was wondering if I could get Mr. Moore’s contact information. I have some, um, business to discuss with him.”
Amanda snorts in a very unladylike manner. “Any business you have with Mr. Moore will go through me, and right now, I know we won’t be needing your services in the near future. Should we desire your services again, I’ll contact you. Goodbye.”
But I interrupt before she can hang up on me.
“Please, Amanda. I need to talk to him.” I hate the pleading tone in my voice. I hate that I’m at the mercy of this snobby, cold bitch. Unfortunately—and expectedly—there’s no sympathy from the ice queen.
“This is highly unprofessional, Katie,” she says in a chilly voice. “Rest assured, I will inform Mr. Moore of your call. Good day.”
This time, she hangs up before I can say anything more. I want to call her back and beg her for Trent’s number, but it’s impossible. She’s got no heart, and it’d be like trying to squeeze water out of a rock trying to get anything from Amanda.
I have one other option, but I really don’t like it. It makes me seem desperate and borderline crazy, but I realize that’s kind of where I am in life. The man who got me pregnant deserves to know, so I have to physically go to the mansion and tell him. After all, if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed, then Mohammed will have to go to the mansion.
With leaden feet, I walk slowly to my car parked in the apartment complex lot. I remember the way to Trent’s house, but it takes me twenty minutes to convince myself to even turn on the vehicle and drive. And when I make it to Trent’s long driveway, I park the car and just sit there for a while, mind still churning. I don’t even have a plan of action—what do I even say? I’m so anxious I want to hightail it out of the driveway and back home under the covers, hiding from the world. But I have to tell him. It wouldn’t be right to keep mum on an issue this important.
“You can do this,” I tell myself, gripping the steering wheel and letting out a deep breath. My hand finds its way to my stomach, cradling it the way I see pregnant women do all the time. How big is the baby growing inside of me right now? How much bigger will I get? Is it a boy or a girl? Even more importantly, will Trent be excited to hear the news or will he want nothing to do with the child? Can I raise him or her on my own?
Tears form in my eyes at the thought of giving up the baby. I’ve always dreamed of starting a family, but I never thought it would be like this. I pictured a nice house with a nursery decked out with stuffed animals, and a loving husband to boot. The last thing I expected was to accidentally get pregnant after a one-night stand with a rich stranger I’ve met only once.
The only thing that consoles me is the thought of that one night we had. It was an unforgettable night of the most incredible, mind-blowing sex ever. I have those memories to keep me warm still, so taking a deep breath, I compose myself. Slowly, I open my car door and march up the stairs to the mansion entrance. The large, wooden doors have antique brass knockers, but I ring the bell, and it lets out shrill hiss. A minute later, a man dressed in a dark suit opens the door. He’s about the size of a refrigerator.
“How may I help you?” he asks, eyeing me suspiciously.
“I’m Katie Martin, an event planner. I’m here to see Mr. Moore?”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Moore is not expecting any visitors,” the giant man says without a pause. “As his head of security, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
What? Without even asking what this is about? What if I had important business matters to discuss? I take a deep breath.
“Please,” I try again. “It’s very important that I see him.”
Suddenly, a voice sounds from behind the bodyguard.
“What’s all this commotion?” a man with a British accent asks. “Who’s at the door?”
The huge man rolls his eyes.
“I’m handling it, Charles,” he growls, annoyed. “Just some woman asking to meet with Mr. Moore.”
Suddenly, an old man appears behind the security guard, his head popping out from behind one massive shoulder. When he sees me, his eyes flicker with recognition because we met the night of the party.
“Ah, Katie, how are you? Wonderful party you threw last time. Has Mr. Moore failed to send your check?” he asks, puzzled. “He’s usually very good with payments.”
