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Burying my head in my hands, I let the tears flow.
God, I hate myself.
Luke
As I’m driving in my car, I try my best to suppress the rage that’s rising within me.
Why did she keep the secret from me?
All sorts of different ideas go through my mind, threatening to make my head spin. Did she think I would shy away from my paternal responsibilities? Was she planning on taking the baby away from me?
Now that the initial shock at the news has faded, I’m starting to adjust to the fact that I’m going to be a father. I hadn’t planned on it, but I feel like I’m ready.
Tessa doesn’t truly know me if she thinks I’ll just abandon her and my child. My anger grows at the idea and my hands start to shake, knuckles white as I grip the steering wheel tighter and tighter.
Everything seems a little surreal and dream-like as I drive, the bright lights of fast-food restaurants whizzing past. I struggle to concentrate on the road.
It’s a little late, not so busy, but really I shouldn’t be driving in my current state. I continue on anyway, feeling the need to get away, to somehow control my anger.
As my rage subsides slightly, guilt pangs in my chest over having left Tessa at the restaurant on her own. Maybe I should turn the car around, at least see her back home . . .
Nah. I’m just too angry to see her again, and it wouldn’t be good for either of us if I did.
She’s a big girl; she can look after herself. She’ll be able to get a cab home.
I shake my head in disbelief at the whole situation, trying to focus on the road ahead rather than the anger seething within me.
My mind goes back to earlier in the evening, the meal, the way Tessa had been acting. And the way my Mom knew straight away she was pregnant.
I felt like a fool for not realizing. It seemed so obvious when my Mom had explained everything, but I simply hadn’t noticed or even thought to ask what was going on.
I curse myself, shamed and embarrassment rising up. How long was she planning on keeping this from me? Was she ever going to tell me? Or was she just going to disappear one day, until I get a letter through from a lawyer, filing for annulment and custody rights?
I try to tell myself that perhaps Tessa’s reasons hadn’t been so malicious, and that perhaps she was simply scared of telling me, or thought I would be angry and demand she get rid of the baby.
But rage has me trapped in its grips, and I can’t see through the red mist enough to even think about forgiveness.
I take a deep breath as I head to my office, marching past the executive meeting rooms and the boardroom. Something catches my eye as I pass the boardroom, and I see Brock standing before a trio of men, pointing his finger at them in an accusatory fashion.
The three men look down sheepishly at the paperwork in from of them. One of the guys, by far the youngest of the three, shuffles uncomfortably from side to side in his chair.
This doesn’t look good. Something’s got to be seriously wrong if Brock is riled up like that.
Brock is leaning forward, his expression angry, gesturing with his hand and pointing at the three men in turn as he speaks. He makes a sweeping gesture, then jerks his thumb over his shoulder, before pointing back at the documents laid out in front on him.
As if sensing my presence, he turns to see me standing by the door, and a wry smile spreads on his face. He gestures for me to join him.
I walk in, and the room is deathly silent. The three men, one of whom I recognize as a key member of my legal team, all try and look anywhere but at me.
“What’s going on?” I ask quietly, voice terse with pent up anger. “And make it quick. This is the last thing I need right now.”
“You tell him,” Brock says, pointing to the senior lawyer, the guy who’d called me when I was at the restaurant.
The lawyer clears his throat and looks up at me, wincing, before starting to talk. “I’ve been reviewing the legal documents and contracts related to the dissolution and sale of parts of the business, as per the requirements of acquisition set out by the competition regulator, to prevent monopolization, and . . .”
Brock cuts him off with an angry gesture, pointing his finger back towards me. “Tell him straight! You fucked up!” he yells, voice booming loud and reverberating from the walls and big conference table.
I cross my arms and frown. “Don’t fucking bullshit me. What sort of shit have you gotten me in?” I ask, barely controlling the anger I feel rising like ice from the pit of my stomach.
