Baby By Accident(80)

Obviously.

His heart had frozen dead as he’d read the final words of the email.

Vico stared out his office window at the dull, damp clouds hanging above late-afternoon London. When he’d arrived here yesterday, thunderstorms had swept the streets of pedestrians, but now the clouds were merely sullen, a surly reminder of the storm still in store.

Tapping his fingers on the pane, he tried to force the melancholy back, force the thoughts from him. The deadness. Yet they kept marching through his memory and through his emotions like stark soldiers off to war.

His heart hadn’t been enough.

The deadness inside him had wanted more.

In the hours he’d waited for her in his office at the villa, it had crept across his chest and arms. His muscles tightened into rigid bands of pain. When she’d arrived, he found it hard to speak, hard to breathe. His pride was still alive, though, and it had prodded the words out. Protected him from falling to his knees in front of her.

But his pride was now also gone. Gone to the deadness. Somewhere over France, as the plane hummed beneath his feet, his pride succumbed to its own death. Cut to pieces by his memories and regrets.

He’d immediately come into the office when he’d landed at Heathrow, hoping business would distract him. Fifteen years ago, education and then business had saved him from himself. Maybe it would work one more time. The office had been busy, productive—

And surprised to see him.

They’d grown accustomed to his long-distance contact.

Exactly as he’d grown accustomed to life with Lise, accustomed to her laughter and love.

There’d been no love, the deadness whispered.

Nothing, not the phone calls, the emails, the texts, nothing could pry this last thought out of his head. For the rest of the day, he’d sat in his office staring into space and throwing an occasional brusque comment to anyone who dared to come in and question him or greet him.

Then he’d gone home to silence.

With a sound of disgust, he slapped his hand on the window. Rather than slapping himself.

Last night had been a complete fiasco, but the deadness creeping through him had terrified him. He’d gone out, drunk too much, laughed instead of cried. He ached, groaned inside as he’d flirted, had his picture taken, smiled some more. Still, not all the alcohol in London could force him to go home with the giggling woman he found sitting by him at three a.m. Somehow, he’d found himself on his own sofa, his head swimming.

Alone.

There’d been no escape from his terror then, even in his stupor. The deadness had kept coming, circling around him until it swamped his entire being. In his dazed drunkenness, he’d even seen his soul shrink inside him, while his spirit swirled above his head before disappearing into the air.

Had he cried out? Probably. But there’d been no one there to console or comfort.

Precisely as he deserved.

How could he be angry with her when she was only protecting herself and her child? How could he rage at her when she was only recognizing the reality of his coarseness, his vulgarity, his unsuitability? And how could he hold his fury inside him, when what she was doing was the right thing?

Had he slept? If he had, it was the sleep of the damned.

This morning, he’d stuck himself in the shower, shivering in the water, yet his brain kept working. It appeared to be the only part of him still alive. Thus, he’d found himself at his office, once more, determined to keep some part of him going. He had forced himself to go through every one of his emails today, had pushed himself to make the calls he’d needed to make. He’d met with several new clients, held a board meeting, dictated numerous letters.

Business, even now, had to be conducted.

After all, he’d shortly be paying out quite a bit of money to his ex-wife.

Distant amusement made him chuckle. The sound rasped in his throat.

There wasn’t much left of him, was there? He was now purely a vessel, a hollow man alive for one reason only.

To pay her back. Not as a vendetta or as an act of revenge. Exactly the opposite. Pay her with his penance, as a sacrifice. Pay her for the stupid trick he’d done in a moment of pure selfishness. Pay her back for impregnating her with a child of a savage. Pay her for making her marry him.

He’s not worthy of my little girl.

When had he forgotten this all-important point? Somewhere in the sunny days by her side, the happy moments sharing her with his family, somewhere he’d forgotten. Forgotten his past, his crimes, his unworthiness.

He deserved this. This death. Deserved this and more.

With a jerk, he straightened.

This was the first day of the rest of his life. A life he would now dedicate to her. She’d get the divorce she wanted; it was only what she was owed. She’d get his money too, more than she’d asked for in those documents. And she’d get his bambino. Because he could never be the father she wanted for her baby. Somewhere, somehow he’d have found a way to go off the rails and screw over his child, just as he had his own life and his own marriage.