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It’s the truth.
I don’t cross-contaminate my work space with my personal liaisons, but for my future wife—and a body I’ve been dying to fuck since she strutted into my office that first day—I’ll make an exception.
“Is that your way of making me feel special? Because it’s not necessary.” Her eyes shimmer, the brightest thing in this room. She can say she doesn’t want this to turn emotional until she’s blue in the face, but everyone wants to be told they’re special.
“No,” I lie. I do want her to feel special … because she is. To me. For some strange and unexpected reason. “I just thought you should know.”
She shows herself out, and I take my call, tracing my fingers along the handprints she left on my polished desktop, inhaling the trail of sensual perfume that mingles with a trace of her sweet arousal.
I miss her already—the escape, the release, the heat of her skin, the taste of her lips. The way nothing else matters when we’re together because my thoughts orbit around her like she’s the fucking sun giving me life.
I’ve never had this before, this total loss of restraint, this shift in priorities, this preoccupation with another person. In all of my years running Westcott Corp, I’ve never cleared my schedule or silenced my phone as much as I have these last few weeks.
I told myself she deserved my undivided attention outside the office as we get to know each other. But the more I get to know her, the more I don’t want to give my attention to anyone—or anything—but her.
We made a pact in Seattle that we’d speak up should this start to veer off and become more than physical.
I don’t know what this is that I’m feeling.
But I have a feeling I’m going to have to say something.
Soon.
Thirty-Nine
Sophie
Past
“Sophie, finish your dinner.” Mom pours Emmeline a glass of milk as she scrutinizes my untouched plate. Two months ago she would have complained about me wasting food, reminding me of our grocery budget. But now that I’ve essentially sold my baby, budgets are no longer a thing.
Maybe “sold” is overstating it.
But that’s how it feels in my soul.
Ever since I signed away my parental rights and left the hospital more alone than I’ve ever felt in my life, Nolan has essentially bankrolled us into a humble yet comfortable lifestyle, a level up from what we knew before. He’s even in the process of purchasing a three-bedroom ranch (in his name) in the next town over for my mom. This fall, he’ll be covering my tuition at Princeton. And he’s agreed to pay for my sister’s ongoing care indefinitely—all of this in exchange for my silence.
Hush money.
I’m never to speak of our relationship—or our baby—to anyone outside my family ever again or he’ll take back the house and terminate the experimental care Emmeline’s been receiving, the care that’s given her back her smile and placed a light in her eyes that wasn’t there before.
I’ve convinced myself that I did the right thing … for the baby, for Mom, for Emmeline. Even if it wasn’t the right choice for me, at least the ones I care about are benefitting. It’s the only thing that helps me sleep at night—if I manage to fall asleep at all.
“I’m not hungry.” My voice is hardly more than a whisper. I don’t talk much these days.
She throws her hands in the air. “You’re never hungry.”
I don’t have the energy to respond.
“Look at you, wasting away.” She points at my withering body beneath the baggy clothes I wear so I don’t have to look at my flat stomach all day long. I’ve been wearing the same Led Zeppelin top for three days. I’ll change later. “You need your strength. You’re leaving for college in a few months … do I need to call your doctor?”
The idea of leaving Illinois and relocating halfway across the country, away from my sister, only compounds the loneliness that colors my life these days, but withdrawing my enrollment would be a stupid move.
Almost as stupid as falling for Nolan.
For the first few weeks, he texted me half a dozen times, asking how I was feeling or if I needed anything. I always told him I was fine. Nothing more, nothing less. I didn’t want anything from him, and I still don’t.
Toward the end of those first weeks, I stopped replying. Eventually he stopped texting. I never told him I saw him in the nursery with the adoptive mother. His so-called “friend” whom he kissed as they admired my baby. The way I saw it, there was no point. Everything he ever told me was a lie, and I was tired of being lied to. Besides, there’s nothing he can say or do to change any of this. It’s best we go our separate ways.
