Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 131345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“You won’t,” Libby reassured him gently, tilting the precious bundle toward him. “Meet your daughter, Greyson.”
He stiffened, his face closing up tighter than a fist, while the panic in his eyes transformed to something close to revulsion. No, this was not the usual first-time father fears. This was something else.
“Greyson? What’s going on?”
“I know she’s not mine, Olivia,” he said, his voice emotionless, his face frozen into a mask of indifference . . . but his eyes. So much hate and rejection.
It distracted her so effectively that it took a second for his words to sink in. And when they did, she didn’t react, didn’t move, didn’t do anything but stare at him for an endless moment. She understood the words but couldn’t quite fathom the meaning. She broke down the statement and tried to restructure it in a way that would make sense. Because currently, it was all wrong and couldn’t possibly be what he had meant to say.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” she finally admitted, wondering if she was developing some kind of aphasia. Hearing things wrong. It could happen. A complication of childbirth. For a second the possibility seemed so real—more real than what she’d actually thought she’d heard—it terrified her.
“I can’t have children,” he said, still in that terribly controlled voice. Libby continued to stare at him, completely confused. What was he saying? She shifted her gaze to her baby and then back up to his face.
Did he mean that he didn’t want children?
“What?”
“For fuck’s sake,” he snapped impatiently, finally losing some of that control and shocking her again with his language. “Drop the act, Olivia! I’m infertile, and I don’t know whose fucking kid that is—or maybe I do—but I know for sure that she’s not mine.”
These words were real; she wasn’t imagining them or hearing him wrong. He was actually saying these truly reprehensible things.
“You’re not infertile,” she said, her voice faint. “Of course you’re not. We just had a baby.”
“You have a baby. I have a cheating wife trying to foist another man’s kid off onto me. And I’m sick of this sham.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Olivia, stop this. I’m exhausted—I just don’t have the energy for your games, and I refuse to pretend anymore.”
“If you thought this was all a pretense, a lie, why didn’t you say something before now?” she asked. Her voice lacked heat, sounding as confused as she felt. What was this? Yes, he’d been absent and disinterested during her pregnancy, but she hadn’t ever considered that this was what was churning away just beneath that perpetually moody surface.
“I was hoping you’d both just admit it and release us all from this fucked-up situation.”
“We both? Who’s the other party in this scenario?”
“We can discuss this tomorrow; I’m tired. I’m heading home.”
“No! You can’t just leave after these ridiculous accusations!”
“You can’t deny it, Olivia. The fact is I’m infertile, and you just had a baby. So there’s no way in hell that child is mine.”
“You’re going to regret this, Greyson,” she predicted, the shock and hurt fading a bit to be replaced by absolute fury and indignation. She welcomed those emotions; they made her feel less vulnerable, less fragile . . .
“I really don’t think so, Olivia. My only regret is not ending this farce sooner.”
“I’ll never forgive you for this,” she promised, her voice hushed.
“I’m not the one who needs forgiveness here.” His voice was grating and seemed to scrape across her sensitive nerve endings, leaving her feeling lacerated and raw. He picked up his jacket, draped it over the crook of his arm, and moved toward the door.
“If you leave now, don’t bother coming back.” She wasn’t going to let this hateful, cold man anywhere near her child ever again. He didn’t deserve to be her father.
“Don’t worry, there’s no chance of that,” he said with a humorless little chuckle before giving her his back and striding from the room.
Libby kept her dry, burning eyes glued to his departing figure. Hoping for some sign that he had doubts . . . or regret. One look back. Anything.
But he left without hesitation, and she sagged back in bed, her hold tightening on her defenseless sleeping baby.
Don’t look back!
Greyson kept his eyes fixed forward. He refused to give her the satisfaction of looking back. All these months . . . willing her to just own up to her deception. Wishing both of them would afford him the respect of admitting to their disgusting infidelity.
He hated what they had done to him. Hated that he hadn’t been able to find the words to confront them about it.
Hated them.
He had waited for one of them to admit to the affair, hoping he wouldn’t have to confront them. But neither of them had said a word. They had allowed this day to come. Allowed their baby to be born and expected Greyson to just . . . what? Be her father?