Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
“Seriously. They build these empires, they bark orders at everyone who crosses their path, then the minute you look at them sideways, they collapse. Vik moving in with you isn’t a compromise, Romy. It’s a total surrender. The man is completely whooped,” Seraphina chimes in, setting her glass down with a soft click.
“He really is. Every time I call you, I hear him in the background asking if you’ve had enough water or if you need some absurdly specific snack from across town,” Mischa says, nudging my shoulder with a grin. I smile, my hand instinctively dropping to my lap, my fingers resting on the small mound of my belly beneath my sundress. It’s true. Ever since that awful afternoon when he found me on the bathroom floor, he hasn’t left. Well, I take that back, since that morning when it all restarted, Vik methodically shifted his life into my cramped space. He brought a single duffel bag at first, which quickly shifted to his suits taking over the bulk of my closet, his high-end espresso machine that crowds out the counterspace, and then there’s his presence. He fills every corner of my apartment. It’s been amazing. It also makes me feel safe.
Vik also did something without me bringing it up or asking: he quit drinking vodka. At least at my apartment. From the stories Alex told me, he was hitting the bottle quiet a lot. Now, he doesn’t drink, and he doesn’t come home smelling like it, either.
“I don’t think Vik loves me,” I say plainly. The girls’ laughter ends abruptly when I drop my feelings like a lead weight. Alex freezes mid-bite, Cory’s smirk vanishes, Mischa stares at me like I’m speaking a foreign language, and Jett, well, she’s blinking her eyes a lot.
“Are you completely insane? Romy, look at me. Are you crazy?” Genny, who’s been relatively quiet, slaps her hand on the table, moving so fast her earrings jingle.
“Genny, I—” I’m startled by the intensity in her voice.
“Nope, listen to me,” she cuts me off. “He would not have willingly moved into your tiny apartment. He wouldn’t take days off work when you were sick. The man canceled afternoon board meetings to hold a washcloth against your neck. He caters to your every whim, orders whatever your body can tolerate, and looks at you like you hang the moon. If he didn’t love you, he wouldn’t be doing any of that. He’s a billionaire, Romy, not a charity worker.” I sit frozen, blood rushing to my ears, and stare at my girls. Each one of their expressions says the same thing, soft, sweet, and like I’m an idiot. And yes, even I can admit I’m being a bit dramatic.
“Oh my god,” I rush out, the words slipping out as realization hits me. “We haven’t said the words.”
“What?” Mischa asks.
“We haven’t said it,” I repeat, my voice rising in a slight panic as the pieces of the last weeks wash over me. “We haven’t said I love you. Not once. Not before, not during, and certainly not after he found out about the baby.” I shake my head. “We’re going through life and the paces of living together, and I’ve just let it all slide. Every last bit of it.” The girls watch me; their initial amusement fades. “I let him bulldoze his way into my apartment,” I mutter, more to myself than to my girls. “I let him take over my space because it felt so good to be taken care of. But we never talked about the elephant in the room. We never talked about the fact that before this, he explicitly told me he didn’t want children. Like, dead set against it, and now, he’s practically rearranged his entire life into mine.” I stand up so fast from my chair it scrapes against the hardwood floor, drawing a few glances from the neighboring tables.
“Romy, sit down and take a breath, please,” Alex says, reaching to hold my hand.
“I can’t,” I say with a fierce determination. “I have to go. I need to have this handled right away.”
“But, now?” Cory asks, her eyebrow shooting up to nearly her hairline. “Vik’s probably in the middle of a meeting.”
“I don’t care what he’s in the middle of.” My voice steadies. My protective instinct, or momma bear as others say, comes out. “We can’t bring a child into our relationship without having this talk. I’m not raising a child with a man who is only here out of obligation, or duty, or because he feels guilty about his past. I need to know the truth.” I grab my glass of peach tea, suck back the remaining liquid in one massive, un-lady-like gulp, and set the empty glass back on the table.
“Okay, but be careful, okay?” This comes from Mischa.