Gambling For The Virgin:A Dark Billionaire Romance(55)

45





Jocelyn





It's been an entire week of worrying myself sick, and honestly, I'm  physically sick even without all of that worrying. If I smell  coffee-something I normally love-it has me running to the bathroom with  wave after wave of nausea. If you've never experienced morning sickness,  consider yourself lucky. Seriously. It's brutal. Why do they call it  'morning sickness' anyways? Morning, night, afternoon-it doesn't  discriminate. It'll hit you whenever and where ever it wants to. And let  me tell you, even ordinary things like toothpaste and my favorite  perfume make me sick. I tried to set up a spa date with one of my old  friends-I thought that maybe I needed to get out, get my thoughts  cleared, pamper myself a bit, and re-connect with the people I've been  close with-but I couldn't have been more wrong. I had to apologize to  the massage therapist for vomiting in her waist basket when I knew I  wouldn't make it to the bathroom. I swear, the smell of all those  candles with the fragrant lotion just sent me over the top. It was  overkill.

I wish I could describe that smell to you, or any smell that gets  jumbled to your senses when you have morning sickness because I know  what you're probably thinking-spas smell great-and you're right, they do  unless you're suffering from an extreme case of morning sickness. But  do you want to know what my body thought of the scent? My body treated  it like it was the smell of belly-button lint on a hot summer day, or  the cognitive dissonance that happens when you think you smell a slice  of peperoni pizza, but realize it's someone's body odor. You see what I  mean? Not good. Not good one bit. All I can say is that this last week  has been a total life adjustment, and the constant worrying just  amplifies it a thousand times. I've been feeling so sick every single  day that when I saw Michael reading the newspaper this morning during  breakfast, it hit me. I have to tell him. I can't put this off any  longer. He thinks I've just had a touch of the flu or something all  week. How long can I keep that ruse up? You can only lie for so long  before it catches up with you, and besides, you want to step off a  sinking ship before it's underwater, right? I'd rather sit down and tell  Michael what's going on, than have him find out some other way. Honesty  is the best policy. I've always believed that. I know you probably  don't believe me, given everything that's transpired between Lance and  I, and I can't blame you. But I mean it.         

     



 

I can hear Michael sitting at his desk in his study. My heart is  thumping in my chest like a rabbit caught in a steel trap. I'm quietly  pacing the hallway. I know I need to just do it. I need to gather every  ounce of courage I have and walk into his office. It's now or never, but  every time I reach for the door, my hand shakes and I pull it back.  What's wrong with me? I've always prided myself on being a strong woman.  I need to pull it together. I need to own up to the truth of the matter  and speak honestly with my husband. Right now. Do this Jocelyn. I have  no idea how he's going to react, but I can't worry about that right now.  I step toward the door again. I can hear that he's just finished taking  a call and has said goodbye to whoever was on the other line. Now's my  chance. I need to step in before he's distracted with something else. I  take a deep breath, ignore my hammering heart, and I push the door open.

Michael looks up from the book in front of him. It's a self-help book of  sorts about effective leadership. I can tell he's confused. I never  walk in here, so I'm sure he's wondering what the hell I'm doing in her  now.

"Can I help you?"

The way he asks is so impersonal. It's as if I were walking into a store  and a clerk asked me the same thing. It's like we're strangers-guests  living under one roof and sharing a bed, but outsiders to one another.

"We need to talk," I say. As soon as I say it, I wish I had used a  better set of words. Whenever someone says they need to talk, it casts  an ominous shadow over a conversation before it even starts. But I  couldn't help it. It was the fist thing to tumble out of my mouth. Can  you blame me? It took every ounce of courage I could muster to even get  this far. And sure enough, I see Michael frowning. His brow is furrowed  into a deep crevice across his face.

"What could you possibly need to talk about right now? Can you see I'm busy? This campaign requires my full attention, Jocelyn."

I feel my entire body twisting into knots. I see that small talk isn't  going to work with him, and besides, I don't know how much longer I'm  going to last under his penetrating gaze, so I just come out and say it.

"I'm pregnant."

It's like an intense weight has been lifted from my shoulders, and for  what seems like an impossibly long amount of time, there's silence. It's  a deep and troubling silence. The kind of utter silence that you get on  a dark, snowy night where the wind has stopped and no living thing can  be heard or seen. I've been told that snow absorbs sound, and now I also  feel that words can absorb sound too. I want Michael to say something.  Anything. But my confession is met with an unsettling calm. I sit down  in one of the chairs and watch the emotions written on his face. There  is a moment of total clarity where he truly understands that this baby  isn't his. It's impossible, he knows. But then I can see another moment  where his mind is working overtime; trying to figure out whose baby this  belongs to. There is a moment of pain when he feels the sting of my  infidelity, but that's so fleeting that I almost doubt that I saw it.  His face then morphs a final time, and this transformation is  terrifying. It's hateful and exacting. He folds his hands together on  top of his desk and leans back into his chair, carefully keeping his  eyes locked on mine.

"Well then, this is cause for celebration-I'm going to be a father again."

At first I don't know what to say. Do I need to remind him that this  baby isn't his? I mean, that goes without saying, right? What kind of a  game is he playing?

"Michael, I-"

He cuts me off. There's a sharp glint in his eyes. "This is my baby."

"No, this-"

"Our new son will be named Michael Anders Jr. and this is my baby," he  says, banging his fist down on top of the desk, his lips snarled.

"And what if it's a girl?"

He ignores my question and continues. "If I ever hear you say  otherwise-if you so much as make a hint otherwise-I promise you'll  regret the day you met me. I can, and will, bury you."

I'm silent. Michael leans forward.

"And if you ever want to keep any semblance of a father - one who hasn't  been publicly humiliated worse than you can ever imagine, with a wife  that's left him in his old age - if you want to keep your parents as the  darlings of society, then you'll keep your mouth shut, dear wife,"  Michael says quietly.

That was the final dagger. It's no use arguing. This will be Michael's  baby, and no one will ever think otherwise. I know Michael's a powerful  man. He has wealth, power, prestige, and connections. I don't want  anyone to get hurt-especially not my father or Lance. There's no way  I'll ever tell him that this is actually Lance's baby. He can't know. I  don't even want to think about what he'd do to Lance if he knew. I'll  take this knowledge to my grave.

"It's no secret that I don't have any interest in you whatsoever," he  says. His voice is cold and distant, and even though I've known this to  be true for our entire marriage, it still hurts to hear him say it. "But  it's important that we keep up appearances for the public-for the sake  of this campaign. You will not compromise my bid for mayor."

I watch as he pulls a cigar from his desk drawer and lights it. I never  see him smoke anymore. In fact, I thought he quit. I watch as blue smoke  fills the room. On the one hand, I'm relieved to no longer be hiding  and carrying this secret from Michael, but on the other hand, I know  I've only been partially honest and that still sits inside of me like a  boulder.

He exhales and continues, "You can't go public." He's like a lion that  has cornered its prey. He can feel that power, and it spurs him on. He's  opportunistic, and he's out for blood.

"I understand," I say, resigned and submissive.

"Good. Now let's have this baby."





46





Lance





I have a bad feeling. A bad fucking one. Deep inside of me there's  something gnawing, something poking holes in the happiness I'm feeling.  I've never been a fucking superstitious kind of guy, but I can't help  it …  I'm fucking worrying and I don't even know why. It's just a bad  fucking feeling.

I have no reason to feel like this, though: I've met the perfect woman  and everything's going just great between the two of us. We had a rocky  fucking start, that's for sure, but things are better now. Sure, it's  not a fucking perfect situation, with my father and all …  But as long as  we have each other, everything will work out. Right? Yes, that's fucking  right.