Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
“Livy cleaned and disinfected it.”
I’m her husband. I should be taking care of her, damn it. I bite back a protest, weighing my words carefully. “We need to talk.”
“We do.” She takes a few steps toward me. “There’s something you ought to know.” She bites her lip before correcting herself. “Something you have a right to know.”
My instincts go on high alert. It sounds like a confession, as if she’s preparing me for news I won’t like.
A million possibilities cross my mind in a second, but the one that sticks like a spike in my ribs is that she wants to leave me because she knows a potential life partner who’s worth a shot, someone better than me.
My heart starts pounding. I don’t like where she’s going with this, but I cross my arms, giving her time to finish.
“I don’t know how to say this,” she finally says, watching me with those big, pretty eyes.
I want to tell her she doesn’t have to say a word, that all she has to do is stay and let me prove myself to her. I’m willing to work hard for her trust, a lot harder than she ever made me work for her affection or her body. I want to tell her that I love her, that I wanted her from the moment I laid eyes on her, but I have no idea how to convince her. After the fiasco I made of our marriage, she’ll believe nothing that comes out of my mouth. I want to say that and so much more, but before I can open my mouth, she reaches into the back pocket of her jeans and takes something out that she holds to me.
I look at her outstretched arm and the object in her hand.
A pregnancy test.
I frown.
Why would she show me a test? Confusion wars with incomprehension. Then the two lines in the window on the stick catch my attention, and confusion wins out.
Anya is pregnant?
The notion is like taking a cannon ball in the gut.
Impossible.
My hand is steady as I take the test from her, but inside, I’m shaking with the force of a ten on the Richter scale. So many emotions slash through me I can’t make sense of any of them.
I lift my gaze to her beautiful face.
Anya is going to have a baby.
Another baby.
No.
It can’t be.
Unless…
Unless it’s not mine.
It’s near impossible to push down the feelings assaulting me. It’s easier to don the emotionless mask I perfected.
I hand her back the test, clenching my jaw so hard the crunch of my teeth echoes in my skull.
“Sav,” she says, her tone holding a plea.
I hardly register my name, hardly hear her. I’m sinking, drowning in those sentiments that I can’t name. Inside, I’m one big fucking explosion. Chaos. Even so, I move on solid legs to my chair and grab my jacket from the back. I pull it on with jerky movements. I have an eerie notion of looking at myself from outside my body much like I had in the hospital after the grenade made a mess of my face. I open the drawer and blindly reach for objects that I shove in my pocket—my phone and my keys.
“Saverio,” Anya says as I grab my cane from the side of my chair, but I pay her no heed.
I can’t. Not until I’ve calmed the fuck down and gotten my head straight.
“Sav,” Anya calls after me as I pass her on my way to the door.
Her voice is like an echo. The carpet in front of me is a blur. I walk from the house like a zombie, more demon than man.
I get into the car and tell Kevin where to go, cursing the fact that I can’t drive myself yet because I have a burning need to put my foot down on the accelerator. Two cars with guards follow. On the way to Manhattan, I try to find a semblance of calm, but it’s to no avail. By the time we pull up in SoHo, I’m like a raging bull. I tell Kevin to wait and ring the bell outside the building. When the street entrance opens, I take the stairs as fast as my limp allows.
Rachele barely has the door open before I barge inside, nearly knocking her off her feet with the momentum of my palm that I push on the wood.
“What the fuck, Sav?” she exclaims, jumping out of the way.
Archibald James II looks up from behind a laptop at the island counter. His shirt is unbuttoned almost to his navel, exposing his bushy chest hair and a polished crystal that hangs on a leather string around his neck.
I lean my cane on the wall and tilt my head toward the door. “Rachele and I need to talk.”
“About what?” he asks, sliding off his barstool.