“I didn’t know what was the right thing to do,” I say softly.
“You sure as hell didn’t.” He agrees.
“I tried to reach out—I wanted you to know.”
But he isn’t listening. Or maybe he can’t.
“I need air,” he snaps.
Then,, “And I need a paternity test. You’ll hear from my attorney—one way or another.”
Then quieter. Colder. “And if sheismine…”
But he doesn’t finish. He just turns and walks out, the door slamming behind him.
Not ten seconds later, I hear it—Esme’s cry drifting from the back bedroom. Sharp. Startled. Like she’s felt the rip in the air.
I stand in the middle of the living room, stunned. Hollow.
But really?
What did I expect?
The rest of the weekend passes in fragments. I go through the motions—laundry, dishes, scrambled eggs, storybooks—but inside I’m shattered.
I text him. Repeatedly.
Spencer, I’m so sorry.
I just need you to understand. I thought you were married.
I was trying to protect everyone—you, Esme, myself.
A few hours later, I try again.
I did try to reach out. Right after I found out. I texted. I said it was important. I asked you to call me.
Finally, late Sunday night, he replies.
The wedding weekend? The trip to France?
I respond, fingers trembling.
I was caught off guard. Scared. I didn’t knowhow to tell you.
His reply comes fast.
But not too scared to sleep with me again.
That cuts deep. I shoot back:
You told me you have wholeschemesto protect yourself from women like me. You literallyhire actorsto pretend to date you. What was I supposed to think?
His reply is cold.
There’s a reason for that.
And that’s it. I lose it.
