His eyes shot a warning.
What the hell are you doing?
Anger radiated, but beneath it all was the faintest shadow of horror. Did he believe my tale? How did he feel to know what he’d done when I might’ve been carrying his child?
Does it make you sick?I blazed my own silent message.Does it rip out your insides to think you might’ve killed your own flesh and blood?
Before I could seek answers in his eyes, he looked away.
“I’m sorry, but the interview is over.” Jethro stood to his full height, his suit looking crisp compared to his ruffled exterior.
I’d come into this as a victim, but I’d stolen the show.
I felt redeemed.
They might’ve robbed my plans of pregnancy, but I’d just poached theirs in return.
I was no longer the meek little woman. I was the strong barren woman destined to live with a man she adored and never get pregnant. The media would direct their sympathy onto me—they would be kinder to my family, less likely to slander my last name.
And should all my scheming fail and it came time for me to pay the Final Debt, I might have some chance of rallying them to save me.
George stood up, his fingers fluttering over his camera. “Ah, can we bother you for some pictures? Before we conclude for the day?”
Jethro’s nostrils flared. “No, I think my girlfriend needs to lie down. This has—”
“Now,honey, don’t hide the truth from them.” I wiped beneath my eyes, hoping he saw my challenge.
I’m not done with you yet.
Jethro’s eyebrows knitted together. “We haven’t hidden anything,my love.” He smiled thinly, pinching my arm where George couldn’t see.
“Wait—what are you talking about, Ms. Weaver?” Sylvie asked.
I smiled radiantly. “I’m not just his girlfriend.”
Jethro sucked in a breath.
George bounced on the spot with anticipation. “What do you mean?”
Beaming at Jethro, I said, “I’m his fiancée. We’re getting married.”
Chapter Eighteen
Jethro
WHAT IN THE ever-loving fuck was she doing?
My mind scrambled; a terrible lancing pain stabbed my temples.
Wasshe pregnant?
Did she miscarry?
What the fuck did it mean if shewaspregnant? What would the contraceptive do?
I shook my head, trying to get my erratic breathing under control. I couldn’t think about those things—not while the reporters were here, watching our every move.
Pills.
