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We stole a baby.
A perfect little baby girl, a precious gem who grabbed my finger so tightly, everything shifted inside me, and such overwhelming love poured from me toward her. I couldn’t stop touching her.
I couldn’t have had a stronger connection to her if I tried.
So I took her, and we brought her home where everyone already saw her, thinking we finally got approved for adoption and just kept it all a secret.
And while happiness rocks through me at the prospect of having my daughter, I cannot help but think about what I’ve done.
About the mother who trusted us to help her with the delivery when her car got stuck in the middle of the road, and instead, we took away her baby. We hid it inside our car as paramedics arrived and rushed her to the hospital due to her bleeding.
My husband says no one would know. He thinks fate itself granted us this chance, and it’s fair since the girl was only sixteen years old.
He thinks we spared her the trouble.
I don’t think he’d be this confident if his best friend didn’t help him with all the paperwork to cover it up. Maybe that’s why he promised to make him a godfather even though he was never my favorite.
I can’t help but think, though.
Think about what she said about the father of her baby, a man she desperately feared because he forced her to have this baby. She whispered in my ear when my husband couldn’t hear that the baby’s father was a cruel and horrible man.
And about another baby.
A boy.
She had fraternal twins. That was the reason we kept one. She mentioned she had never even had an ultrasound. I found out when I tried to distract her during labor, although it was useless as she kicked and screamed at my husband, not allowing him to touch her, so I had to be the one to help her.
A little secret no one would ever discover as my husband says, and a blessing from God to us, we were meant to be on that trip and on the side of the road where we stopped to admire the dandelions on the field.
Maybe.
Still, though, despite my sin and an awful deed, I pray.
I pray we never cross paths with these people again.
Because I think…I think while fate might be forgiving…they won’t be.
And who could blame them?
Isla
Octavius sweeps his gaze over me one last time and then starts walking toward his chair while I stare at him. He sits down, leaning back, and drums his fingers on the desk. “Well? What do you want?” he asks again, finally snapping me out of my stupor, and I shake my head so I can focus through the gloomy fog this man creates in my mind.
For a moment in time, it seemed as if we were the only people in the world, and I half expected him to lunge after me, pressing me against the wall, and my nails cut into my palm just thinking about my disappointment when he hadn’t done it.
My whole life, I went without any stupid crushes, and now, when it matters the most, I experience a variety of emotions that have no place between us.
Octavius already hates my presence. If the annoyed glint in his eyes is anything to go by, he’d kick me out if he found out I lusted over the guy.
Pathetic and stupid, adjectives describing me to a T.
I clear my throat and answer him. “I’m a private investigator.” I go to the chair opposite him and sit on it, rubbing my denim-clad thighs with hope of calming my nerves. “I just moved from New York.”
His face stays unreadable, not an ounce of emotion, and I wonder what it is like to have such a skill because people can read me like a book. I can’t pretend to save my life, which sometimes in my profession is catastrophic. One of the reasons Uncle Grayson never gave me any undercover assignments. I blew them all anyway. “I’m not hiring.”
My cheeks heat at his assumption, and I squeeze my hands once again, hiding my chipped nail polish from him and hoping he hasn’t noticed my scuffed shoes. Among all the luxuries surrounding me, it’s impossible not to feel self-conscious, and besides, the notes lacing his tone…as if he expects someone like me to use all my connections to get some pity from him. “I’m not here for a job.”
“Then I fail to see why you asked Callum for this appointment.” I wince at the anger lacing his voice at this, contrasting the possessiveness filling his gaze, but before I can dwell on it much, he adds, “If that’s all…”
