LordandMaster: He’ll do everything but the Pap test. Don’t question me.
But he’ll see me in a thin gown and check me for STDs? I feel sick.
Me: Does he know about us?
LordandMaster: Yes
Yes? That’s all he’s going to say?
I pinch the bridge of my nose, debating the wisdom in storming out.
“I need to see him right now.” The pregnant woman’s rising voice brings my eyes up.
She gathers her long blonde hair and holds it away from her pale complexion, her tense posture screaming with frustration.
“Ma’am,” the receptionist says sternly, “if you give me your information, I’ll set up—”
“Go back there and tell him Joanne is here.”
My stomach drops as my entire world narrows to her belly. She can’t be his Joanne. This…this woman is pregnant. A lot pregnant. Like easily seven or eight months along.
Emeric said he hasn’t seen her in six months.
My chest clenches. No. No, no, no. Emeric would’ve told me.
The receptionist stands. “Is Dr. Marceaux expecting you?”
“I’m expecting his grandson.” She points at her stomach. “VIP pass. I need to see him. Now.”
Nausea barrels through my gut, doubling me over. It’s not true. I must’ve misheard.
The receptionist widens her eyes then slips down the hall toward the back.
Relaxing against the counter, Joanne rests her phone on the ledge of her baby belly. Emeric’s baby.
My insides roil with bile. I scan the waiting room for a bathroom, and my gaze catches and locks on hers. She gives me a tight smile and moves on, taking in the people sitting near me.
Her small nose, smooth flat features, and close-set eyes give her a tiny pixie look, one that works well for her. Really well. She’s painfully beautiful, like a perfect mix of Kristen Bell and Keira Knightley.
No wonder he loves her.
The mother of his child.
I ball my hands to stop the trembling. Why didn’t he tell me? Is he trying to resolve things with her? So they can be a happy family?
Tears sneak up, burning my eyes, and a horrible ache seals my throat. I spring from the seat and walk as calmly as I can into the single-person bathroom. As soon as the door shuts, I drag in loud, ragged breaths and hit the last call dialed on my phone.
Emeric’s gravelly voice scrapes against my eardrum. “Ivory.”
“Your pregnant girlfriend is here.”
Please tell me I’m mistaken. My chest hurts so badly I can’t breathe.
The line goes silent for a weighted moment. Then a flurry of sounds rushes through. His exhales, the slam of a door, the roar of a motor. “I’ll be there in three minutes.”
So it’s true. The gravity of that steals the strength from my legs. I slide down the door, drop to the floor, and try to keep the tears from wobbling my voice. “You lied to me.”
“Bull—”
“Omitting is the same as lying.” I squeeze the phone. “Your words.”
His heavy breaths rasp through the receiver. “Tell me you didn’t talk to her.”
“Why?” My chin quivers. “Because I’m your dirty secret? Your side piece while you work on your relationship—”
“So help me God…” His voice is so cold it lifts the hairs on my neck. “I’m going to break my fucking belt on your ass.”
I lower the phone, take a huge calming breath, then lift it back to my ear. “You’re a bastard.”
“Keep going, Ivory. You’re not going to walk for a week.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
A loud thump vibrates through the phone, at odds with the silkiness in his tone. “This is my problem, one that’s going to go away very soon.”
“What?” Outrage pitches my volume. “You don’t just make a baby go away!”
“Lower your fucking voice. Where are you?”
“In hell.”
“Melodrama doesn’t suit you.”
I punch a pathetic fist against the tiled wall. “Fuck you.”
“Fuck you for making assumptions about shit you know nothing about!” he roars.
“Is the baby yours?”
“I asked you a question!” he shouts then reins in his tone. “You’re making me wait.”
“Good.” Sitting against the door on the bathroom floor, I kick my legs out in front me. “You can go fuck yourself while you wait.”
“I’m outside.” The grating of his breaths strains the silence, followed by the bang of a car door. “Listen closely. I know you’re hurt, and I caused that. But you’re going to get the fuck over it and trust me.”
He can’t be serious. I don’t bother responding.
“I’ll deal with Joanne,” he says, “and you will get that fucking check-up.”
He ends the call, and I stare at the screen in disbelief. I remain on the floor, grinding my molars and cursing the creation of the opposite sex.
Men who praise and promise are the ones who hurt the most. They coerce and bribe and fuck with my head. Then they fuck my body and leave the kind of scarring fear that no one can see.
I thought he was different. Now I’m not sure.
But I do know he’s not the type to get a woman pregnant and bail. He’s too controlling and obsessive to not be fully invested in his child’s life.