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Shay’s russet brow arches. “Are we not believing your dad?”
I shrug, “He’s back on the Council, and while I know he’d never do anything to put me in danger purposefully, I also know that no one is divulging pertinent information under the guise of keeping me safe.”
She points to my stomach. “Umm, can you blame them?”
“I’m pregnant, not helpless,” I retort, narrowing my eyes. “I’m not asking to go in guns blazing. I’d just like more honesty and clarity about what’s happening.”
I’d also like to know why guys who’ve supposedly moved on and never wanted me in the first place are reacting like they have some claim over me. Why do they even fucking care?
I don’t voice any of these concerns to her, fearing she’ll tell me not to hold out any hope.
Shay’s never said to move on, but it’s the way she and everyone else looks at me, with fucking pity. She’s never judged me, but I feel like my character has been weighed and found wanting.
I’m a pregnant girl, fresh out of high school, not sure who her children’s father is because she was passed around like a toy by boys who like to share. I know what I thought I had with the guys was unconventional, at best, and scandalous, at worst, based on societal norms. But fuck society and its puritanical culture. The obsession with propriety has only ever fostered polarity and complacency. Anyone who has a problem can shove their judgments down their throats and choke on them.
“What can I do to help?” Shay asks, pulling me from my internal musings. “I can go?—”
I cut her off. “Nope. Absolutely not. I will not put you in harm’s way ever again. Especially not intentionally!”
It’s her turn to look affronted. “So, I’m supposed to sit and look pretty while my pregnant best friend tries to fight the world? Not ah bumbo.”
“Shay, the last time you were with me, I watched in horror as you were shot. Then, I had to explain to your mother why her daughter was fighting for her life. I won’t do that shit again. Not a bumber,” I attempt to mimic her patois, and by the look on her face, I failed.
“It’s bum-bo,” she snorts. “Let’s leave the horrible accents to Miss Cleo, please, and tanks.”
I squint in confusion. “Who the hell is Miss Cleo?”
“A television psychic,” she begins, then shakes her head. “You know what, never mind. It’s irrelevant to this conversation.” Shay reaches out, clasping my hands in hers. “You didn’t shoot me, nor were you responsible for me being shot.”
I tug, preparing to refute her claims. It was my fault. Elise used her to get to me, then tried to kill her. She was. . . shit, still is in danger.
“Ariah, I’ve lived in Edgewood since elementary school. Do you think I don’t have some insight into how things work around here? Don’t you think I know more is happening and that my family also has a role in it? No family in Edgewood is without its skeletons or bloody hands. There’s no such thing as an ethically earned billionaire. And every family in Edgewood’s net worth starts with the letter B.”
“None of that means I should ask you to put yourself in danger for me,” I snap, tears building in my eyes. “I won’t do it, Shay. I’ll never ask that of you,” I profess, my tone softening, my gray eyes meeting her brown ones, imploring her to understand. I don’t care if her family’s hands are dirty. I won’t ever be the reason why she’s hurt again.
Her head tilts and a warm smile appears on her freckled face. “You won’t have to because whether you ask it or not, I’m going to help.”
A tear falls, and I close my eyes, wanting to shake some sense into this crazy bitch.
Shay lets go of my hand, and then I feel her warm finger catching it before it drips on me. “I won’t do anything dangerous, but I can help. I want to help.”
All I can see is her body dropping on the ground on a loop in my head. My lips part to argue, but a knock forces my attention toward my room door, where Conner stands.
“Someone is waiting for you downstairs with a package,” he explains. He must notice my confusion because he continues. “It’s been scanned, but according to the delivery instructions, it must be hand-delivered to you. No exceptions.”
Huffing, I brush away any remnants of evidence of my crying and stand. “Okay. I’ll be down in a minute.”
Conner nods, and there’s a look I can’t decipher on his face before he disappears from my doorway.
“What do you think it could be?” Shay inquires.
“There’s only one way to find out,” I say, rising from the bed.
We both descend the stairs and see a finely dressed man standing in the foyer. His suit and demeanor are reminiscent of the Selection process. Dread fills my belly, and I know what this must be before he speaks.
“Miss Bradford?” the man’s gravely voice questions.
Unable to speak, I quickly dip my chin in confirmation.
