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It was close to five, but perhaps if she messaged him, she could put off the inevitable.
Just as she swiped her phone open and realized she still had no way to contact Xavier, for she didn’t have his number, the doorbell rang, peeling through the house.
She moved with alacrity, hating the thought of a sickly little boy being woken from his sleep, despairing even more so at the idea of the executioner’s blade that was about to drop.
You can choose what you can and can’t make your peace with.
If only it was that simple! The truth was, she didn’t think she could easily make her peace with either suggestion!
She wrenched the door inwards without bothering to check who was there – even the way he rung a doorbell had a distinctly autocratic manner to it.
But the sight of him in casual clothes almost felled her. Xavier in a suit she could just about handle because she’d become used to that. But like this? In worn blue denims, a navy blue button-down and a leather jacket? She stared at him for several seconds before recollecting herself. She gripped the door more tightly, creating a barrier between him and the interior of her townhouse. “I was just about to call you when I realized I don’t have your number.”
His eyes narrowed imperceptibly. “No need to call me when I am here.”
“Yes, about that.” She cleared her throat, tossing a furtive glance over her shoulder. “Joshua isn’t feeling well, so this really isn’t a good time…” She dropped her gaze lower, noting for the first time that he carried a distinctive yellow shopping bag from Selfridge’s in one hand.
“What’s wrong with him?” Xavier asked, though the question was filled with barely-concealed skepticism.
“He came home sick from school.”
“Did he indeed? Well, isn’t that convenient?”
“No, Xavier. Nothing about my son being ill is convenient.”
“Our son,” he corrected. “And isn’t it possible you’re using him as an excuse? To delay giving me an answer?”
She blinked, his words unexpectedly commanding. And unwelcome, too. “He’s sick.”
He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Then I will not take him to Spain right now,” he said through clenched teeth. “Tomorrow will do just as well.”
“Don’t talk like that,” she muttered, her insides trembling even when she appeared resolute.
“I gave you two options. What is it to be, Elizabeth? Marriage and happy families, or not?”
“Happy families?” She spat, the visage so awfully confronting that she stumbled back a little from her door. He took advantage of that and strode inside, eyeing her with a look of total disdain.
“Playing happy families,” he clarified.
“He doesn’t even have a passport,” she declared in a valiant attempt to fight his illogic with reason.
“I can arrange one,” he said. “I have been in touch with the embassy and explained the situation. The ambassador is an old family friend.”
Ellie felt hot and cold all over. “The ambassador?”
“To the United Kingdom,” he said with a nod. “He was shocked to hear of my situation. He has several barristers he can recommend who will make it possible for me to take my son away, this night.”
Ellie was weakened with shock but her maternal instincts made her strong and she launched at him, no longer a being of logic, but a creature of primal, soul-deep desperation. She pushed at his chest and her hand lifted, flying towards his face, her fist tight and small. He caught her wrist easily but her other hand connected with his chest, punching him, and he stood there, letting her hit him, his expression unchanging, his eyes watching every single flint of pain that glanced across her face. “You will not take him from me!” She sobbed, tears thick in her throat.
She hit him again and again and finally she shoved his chest and then spun away, lifting her hands to her mouth, covering her sobs and catching them in her palms.
“You took him from me,” he said finally. “What is good for the goose…”
“Oh, shut up!” She pleaded, spinning away and stalking to the kitchen, needing water, tea, liquor. Anything to provide a balm to this pain. “I didn’t take him from you! He was never yours!”
“He is my son,” he said with dark rage.
“Yes, but what does that mean? You slept with me four years ago. That doesn’t make a father.”
