CEO's Expectant Secretary(52)
Her heart still hurt as if she’d had major surgery. Biting her lip, she knew she needed to figure out what to do. If Brock despised her as much as he seemed, then he would never trust her. What kind of marriage could they have? What kind of parents would they be together?
Elle refused to have the same kind of relationship with Brock that his parents had appeared to have. That couldn’t be good for anyone. No matter what happened between her and Brock, at least the baby would have a father. That was more than she’d ever had.
Her mind was spinning and she couldn’t stop it. Scenario after scenario flew through her mind. What would she do? How would she live? She didn’t mind going back to work. In this situation, she would welcome it. But would Brock try to take the baby from her? She’d never, ever let that happen.
Her stomach growled despite the fact that she couldn’t imagine eating. She needed to eat, she told herself, for the baby if nothing else. She took another shower in hopes of cleansing herself of the dirty feeling that covered her like a veil of pollution.
Possibilities, choices chugging through her mind, she went downstairs. The housekeeper greeted her with a concerned expression. “Is everything okay? Your meal was left untouched.”
“Mr. Maddox had a crisis at work,” Elle said and heaven knew it was the truth.
“Oh, what a shame,” the housekeeper said, folding her hands in front of her sympathetically. “Can I get you anything for breakfast?”
“Thank you,” Elle said. “I’d like something bland. Toast and jelly.”
“I’ll bring a scrambled egg on the side and some oatmeal just in case. Perhaps a little fruit,” the housekeeper continued. “And just a couple of slices of bacon. Protein for the little one.”
Although her stomach seemed the size of a pea, Elle managed to down a few bites of egg, toast and even a strip of bacon. She swallowed several sips of icy fresh-squeezed orange juice and said a mental goodbye to the notion of having staff at her beck and call. That wasn’t the worst of her losses, she knew.
She decided to explain her plans to the housekeeper later, after she had packed. Upstairs, on the bed she’d shared with Brock, she pulled out two suitcases and began to put clothes inside. She found a box for her favorite books and keepsakes she’d brought from her mother’s.
She heard the doorbell ring but ignored it. Elle knew she couldn’t stay under the circumstances. Brock would never trust her and she wouldn’t subject him, her or her baby to the life of misery their enforced togetherness would create. She wouldn’t be able to bear his bitterness and resentment and the effect of his hatred of her on their child. The thought of it wrenched at her again.
“Oh, hello,” Brock’s mother said from the doorway. “Anna said you were napping, but I heard sounds. I hope you don’t mind that I came upstairs,” Carol said. “I just wanted to thank you and Brock for attending my little open house the other night.” Carol stopped, finally taking in the sight of Elle’s suitcases and boxes. “Oh, my goodness, you’re not packing, are you?”
Elle bit the inside of her lip. “Brock and I have realized we’re not well suited, so I’ve decided it’s best if I leave.”
“Oh, dear,” Carol said, her voice oozing sympathy. “I’m so very sorry.” She walked into the room, dressed in her couture of the day. “But I totally understand. Not everyone is cut out to be the wife of a Maddox. I’m not sure I really was, either,” Carol confessed in a soft voice. “If I’d known in the beginning what I learned just after a year, I’m not sure I would have—” She broke off and shrugged. “Well, you know what I’m saying. Can I help you pack?”
Elle blinked at the woman’s offer. “Uh—”
“I’m sure it’s difficult for you,” Carol said, moving to Elle’s side and picking up a book. “Is this yours?”
“Yes,” Elle said, watching as she put the book in a box.
“I’m so sorry that things didn’t work out with you and Brock, but again, I understand,” Carol said. “Between the Prentice account and the threat from Golden Gate, Brock just can’t see straight. It seems the Prentice account is a twenty-four-hour-a-day job. Maddox is always having to come up with a new campaign.”
Elle’s antennae went on alert. “New campaign for Prentice?” she asked, pasting a bland look on her face. “What was wrong with the old one?”
“With an account like Prentice, they’re always demanding something new. Brock’s most recent idea may cost some bucks, though,” Carol said, picking up a stuffed monkey. “Is this yours?”