Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Her eyes sharpen with recognition.
“I used to be young and fresh like you,” she bites out. “Beautiful. I was gorgeous and they couldn’t take their eyes off me. Couldn’t stop touching me, kissing me, fucking me. And I can be beautiful again. I can give them pleasure,” she says, lips pressed together so tight they’re almost white. “But they won’t want me because I can’t give them a baby.”
Her voice breaks harshly, painful to hear. And I don’t know what to say, hands gesturing futilely as my mouth opens, no words coming out.
But Heather’s on a roll, staring at my poochy midsection now.
“You’ll overflow with life soon,” come her slow words. “They’ll want you even more. They’ll shower you with clothes, a car, whatever you want. But mark my words. If you can’t give them an heir, then you’re nothing more than trash. Look at me,” she spits, gesturing to her wasted form. “Look how they threw me out when I couldn’t perform.”
My hand claps over my mouth to keep from crying.
Heather leans back against the kitchen counter, folding skinny arms over a nonexistent chest. “I won’t have to work another day in my life. I’ve got this place. I’ve got a full bank account. A nice car. Someone who cleans for me once a week. But I can’t get out of bed most mornings. It hurts. Have you ever walked around with a plastic bag over your head? That’s what it’s like to be me,” she says fiercely, eyes glaring. “I can’t breathe most days, can’t even take a deep breath.”
I have to help her somehow. Holding my hands out, my voice starts.
“I’ll talk to them,” come my rushed words. “I’m sure the Morgans don’t know, there’s an explanation for all this – “
But the woman cuts me off.
“Go. Fuck. Yourself,” come her clear, enunciated words, chock full of poison. “You heard me. Go fuck yourself.”
And whirling on my heel, I turn and run out of the house, muffled sobs bursting from my chest.
Oh god, oh god, how did this happen? I don’t know what to think, hurling myself into the car, sitting slumped in the driver’s seat. But at the same time, there’s an unmistakable truth to Heather’s words. Because she said the Morgans would give me everything, and they have. This Mercedes. The fantastic apartment. The professional-grade cookware.
But what if I don’t produce? What if I can’t get pregnant? Is it the door for me then? Have I been reduced to nothing but a womb?
And a sob tears through my chest again, so painful that I bend over double, clutching my stomach. Oh god, oh god. I’ve been so stupid.
Because I get it now. The Morgans are master businessmen and master manipulators. This plan of theirs, to share one woman and sire one heir, is a key part of their business operation. If I can’t provide them that, I’ll be out on my ass just like Heather Mastricci.
It’s disturbingly ruthless, Machiavellian to the max. Because children are human beings, and yet for them, an heir is also a wealth management tool. Can I live with that? Can I accept my role as a fertility goddess, a means to an end in this master plan? After all, the Morgans had it spelled out to a tee. Find a hot, horny chick to bear a child, one able to accommodate their endless sexual appetites.
So what do I do now? The dilemma wrecks my mind. On the one hand, I’ve already missed two periods, and that never happens, my monthly flow comes like clockwork. So I must be pregnant already, right?
But on the other, there are doubts raging through my mind, a wild cacophony that makes it difficult to think. Because maybe I’m nothing but a tool in their life plan. Maybe the Morgans even have a powerpoint presentation laying it all out, and my role’s set forth on slides sixteen and seventeen. Oh god, oh god. Am I okay with that? Am I okay being nothing more than a vessel, used for my womb? Because it’s not too late. There are still options … or so I hope.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Macy
Blasting the water, I step into the shower stall, letting the spray pelt me. Oh god. Closing my eyes, I rest my forehead against the cool tile, praying for peace. Because what should I do? After that encounter with Heather, everything’s mixed up and muddled, with no clear path forwards.
On the one hand, the way the Morgans treated that girl was wrong. I don’t care what they told her or what they bought her. No cars, condos or cash is worth the devastation that Heather exhibited. How could they do that? Making the woman feel so good, only to drop her the minute she couldn’t produce. That’s not love or caring. That’s manipulation, pure and simple.