Reading Online Novel

This Man Confessed(33)


Kate chokes on her tea. “You’re pregnant?” She coughs.

The words spike the dormant lump in my throat to swell, and before I can even think about controlling them, tears start streaming down my cheeks. I drop my tea to the table and cover my face with my palms…and I sob.

“Oh, fuck! Oh, shit!” Kate’s chair scrapes across the kitchen floor and the next thing I know, she’s standing behind me with her arms wrapped around my shoulders, hushing me quietly. I feel so stupid all of a sudden. Really, really stupid. Stupid for ignoring my suspicions for so long, stupid for not allowing the pieces to click sooner, and stupid for letting Jesse distract me from the enormity of his actions.

“My period is due tomorrow. I know it’s not coming, and so does Jesse.” I sniffle and Kate leaves me, hurrying over to a unit of drawers. “I’ve been ignoring it, which has frustrated Jesse, but I’m not ready for this, Kate. And now I just feel furious with myself and even more incensed with him. I let things pass sometimes, but this is taking control to a whole new level. I can’t let him do this.”

She hands me a tissue, and I set about wiping my nose as she takes a seat next to me. “I completely agree,” she says. I can’t believe how relieved I am to hear her say that. I know she’s very fond of Jesse, and generally nothing fazes her, not even my husband in all of his challenging ways, but this has shocked her. And I’m so glad. “What are you going to do?” she asks. “Make him sweat?”

“Have an abortion.”

Kate’s mouth hits the table. It doesn’t help.

“Kate, can you imagine what he’ll be like? He already smothers me, and I like it to a certain extent, but being pregnant?”

She scoops her chin up. “Oh God, Ava. You’ll send him to the loony bin.”

“That’s not a good enough reason,” I reply quietly. I know what this will do to him, but he hasn’t considered what any of his actions will do to me. I’m not ready for this, and he hasn’t stopped once to contemplate how I might feel. “It’s not just that. I have a career. I’m twenty-six years old. I don’t want a baby, Kate.”

“I don’t even know what to say.”

“Just say I’m doing the right thing.”

She shakes her head a little. I need her to understand. “Okay,” she says reluctantly. She doesn’t think it’s okay at all, but her willingness to halt any guilt trip is enough for me. I feel guilty enough already. I need to regain control.

“Thank you,” I whisper, picking up my tea and taking a shaky sip.





Chapter Eight



It’s Monday. I wake at the crack of dawn and cry silently to myself. I’m only delaying the inevitable. I need to see Dr. Monroe.

I exit Green Park tube station onto Piccadilly and stop for a few moments, absorbing the frantic rush hour blur of people. I miss this. I miss the chaos of the tube and walking the few blocks to my office—all of the hectic scrambling, the dodging of bodies, and the loud voices, mostly shouting down a mobile phone. That, coupled with the screeching of cars and buses, the honking of impatient horns, and the ringing of cyclist bells, all strangely bring a small smile to my face, until I get nudged in the back, and then ridiculed for keeping the frantic stream of pedestrian traffic from flowing. I snap out of my daydream and shift my feet into gear, heading for Berkeley Square.

“Morning, flower.” Patrick’s big body strides out of his office toward my desk.

I take my seat and swivel to face him. “Good morning.” I fake chirpiness on a stupidly over-the-top level.

He perches on my desk, prompting the usual shriek of strained wood and my usual tensing in anticipation. It’s going to give one day. “How’s the blushing bride?” He clucks my cheek affectionately and winks.

“Perfect.” I smile, laughing at myself and my ability to choose the most inaccurate word to describe how I’m really feeling. Perfectly distraught, that’s what I am.

“It was a wonderful reception. Thank you.”

“Oh, you’re welcome.” I brush off my boss’s appreciation. “Where is everyone?” I ask, desperate to divert the conversation from my shambolic wedding, and probably shambolic marriage, too.

“Sal’s in the stationary cupboard having a tidy up, and Tom and Victoria should be here by now.” He looks at his watch. “Van Der Haus.” He returns his eyes to mine, and I struggle to look relaxed at the mention of my Danish client’s name. “Has he been in touch yet?”

“No.” I load my computer up and jiggle my mouse to get the screen on. It doesn’t escape my thoughts that I’ve been given a deadline of today to inform my boss of Mikael’s revenge mission, but given my current state of affairs and the fact that I’ve left Jesse, I’m thinking my Lord will not be pressing me on this issue. “He said he’d be in touch once he’s back in the U.K.”