But it’s something else altogether for Sophie to bring my fucking daughter into this.
***
“You have a lot of goddamn nerve.”
Sophie stands outside her apartment, which happens to be the penthouse suite of her father’s Lotus Hotel in the Meatpacking District.
“Beckham.” Her finger trails along her collarbone as she paints a slow smile on her red lips. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I push past her, slamming the door. Seething. My neck clenches and my body’s on fire. My blood hasn’t boiled this hot since the night I walked in on Sophie with that washed up actor.
“It’s good to see you again.” She saunters to her mini bar, pulling out a crystal tumbler and a bottle of Scotch. “May I offer you a drink? You look like you could use one. Then again, I always enjoyed seeing you all worked up. Mm. Such a turn on.”
I throttle my breathing. I need to think clearly because the message I have for her today needs to be crystal fucking clear.
Sophie Glass was the first woman who ever broke my heart, at least by standard definition. I hate that she wears that title. It should’ve gone to someone more worthy. Someone with actual blood in her veins and not money, vodka, and self-serving intentions.
“Baby’s cute,” she says, handing me a drink. I don’t accept it. She shrugs and puts it aside. “No need to be rude, Beckham.”
She sashays to her sofa, slinking down and picking up a martini glass from the coaster. It’s a little early for a drink but Sophie Glass has never paid attention to things that matter like time and responsibilities and self-discipline.
“I still have our engagement announcement,” she muses. “Framed too. Daddy never did get over losing the son he always wanted. God forbid he leaves his empire in my hands someday.”
Losing Howard Glass as a future father-in-law was quite the blow, but I’ll be damned if I tell her that.
“I always wondered what our baby would’ve looked like.” Her manicured nail traces the outline of a sequin-striped pillow better suited for the bedroom of a thirteen year old girl. “I feel like it would’ve been a boy. Mother’s intuition I guess.”
“Don’t fucking go there, Sophie.” My shoulders pull tight, fists flexing and clenching.
“I’m sorry, I just can’t picture you as a family man,” she laughs. “Now would that be kismet? Or karma?”
I’d never hit a woman, but it doesn’t stop me from conjuring up an image in my head of my fingers wrapped around Sophie’s porcelain throat, smashing her up against the wall.
“You fucking bitch.”
“I hold you responsible.” She points at me, her smile swapping out for a glare. “You should know that.”
“Still delusional after all these years.”
Her lips twist back into a smirk. “Not delusional. We just remember things differently.”
“No, Sophie. You remember things the way you want to. That way you don’t have to take responsibility for the horrendous choices you made.”
“When you tell your fiancé you think you might be pregnant, and he freaks out and goes on a rampage about how he never wanted children and how he’s not capable of being a father, what’s a girl to do?” Her eyes glass but it’s only temporary. “I didn’t want to lose you, Beckham. I did what I had to do.”
“You don’t go out and get a fucking abortion, Sophie.” The throbbing in my head is only outdone by the painful tensing of my jaw.
She uncrosses her legs, drawing them up on the sofa and reaching for her martini glass.
“You stormed out that night. I didn’t hear from you for a week. I had to fix the problem.” Her words are lined in defense, but her argument is thin. “You came back to me after that, did you not?”
“Like a fucking moron, yes.” My voice is a low growl. “Don’t think a day goes by when I don’t regret it.”
She rolls her eyes. “Men act like they have it so hard. You think it was easy for me to walk into a clinic, a scarf wrapped around my face, and lie on a table and get our baby sucked out of me?”
My stomach balls. “I never asked you to get an abortion, Sophie.”
“You didn’t have to. You made it clear you didn’t want to be a father. I granted your little wish because I fucking loved you. How many women would do that for you, Beckham?”
The searing pain in my chest intensifies when I think of never knowing my innocent child.
“I was scared, Sophie. I needed space. I needed to process everything.”
“You were weak,” she spits her words. “That’s one of the reasons I wanted you. You were weak and I could break you over and over. Mold you into whatever I needed. You were lost when I found you. A tragically handsome, broken soul. Couldn’t let that go to waste. I showed you what it felt like to be desired, and I made you into everything you ever wanted to be.”