“Is the baby alright?” I ask.
“She’s beautiful.” Beckett is a little nicer when talking about the baby. “And very healthy. What happened to you? The taxi driver said he slid on ice.”
“I guess he did. I thought I was having contractions, but I also read that it could be Braxton Hicks; she wasn’t due for another week. So I read that if you get your blood sugar up, they’d stop. I went to the bodega for a smoothie. All during my pregnancy I craved their pomegranate lime smoothies. But I was hit while crossing the street.” My eyes feel raw and tired, like they are made of wood chips and sandpaper. “When can we go home? I can sign whatever you need me to sign to make sure you don’t have to take care of us.” I look at him, making sure he understands he isn’t responsible for my mistake.
He has eyes that exude power. His set jawline and salt-and-pepper stubble make him look both dangerous and wise. Suddenly, I am a little terrified of Beckett because I know he isn’t a nice man. He also is involved in some very questionable stuff. But more importantly, he said he didn’t want a wife or attachments, and I know he meant it. My fantasy lover, the “husband” I slept with once, is Beckett Myers, Mia’s asshole brother. He may be the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen now that I am looking at him in person, but he isn’t going to be a husband or a father. Thank God Mia told me all about him, so I know to stay clear.
He rolls his neck and looks irritated. “I can’t take you home until you’re discharged from the hospital, which won’t be for at least another week. When you’re feeling better I’ll take you to see our daughter. As far as going home, well, when you’re discharged, we’ll be returning to my penthouse on the Upper West Side.”
“Your penthouse? No, I have a place. Mia and I do,” I protest as confusion still swirls around my head. The oxygen is making me sleepy, and it is hard to talk through the mask.
“I’ve had you, Mia, and her horrid little cat moved out of that hellhole. I don’t want her living there alone, and you aren’t going back.” He is so adamant; it doesn’t make any sense.
“Where are we going to be living then?”
“She’s staying in our father’s loft downtown. It has a doorman, an elevator, and a security guard on her floor, not to mention a valet garage for her rare and priceless car. I’m surprised it hasn’t already beenstolen. You will be staying with me in my penthouse in the same building, or at our house in Canada.”
What?There is no way I’m staying with him.
“Isn’t there enough room in Mia’s loft? How much is the rent? I’m on maternity leave from the Ballet.”
I am starting to panic. I’ve only danced with the ballet for six months and haven’t saved that much, plus I still have to repay my student loans. I decided to defer my senior year so I could get used to being a single mom. Later, I’d be ready to return to the ballet and school. Luckily, both are holding space for me since neither institution can discriminate against a pregnant woman.
“You won’t be staying with Mia. You’re in the same building; consider that an unexpected kindness.” He is so cold and distant.
“Why not? Why can’t I live with my best friend? I don’t even know you. We can make a visitation schedule if you want to have time with the baby—”
“Because I’m not living apart from my wife. You wanted to play house? Wish granted, Cinderella. Or should I say, Mrs. Myers.”
What the hell?
“I’m not your wife.” Why is everything so hard and confusing? My body hurts, my mind hurts, I want to see my baby, and now I am married to an asshole?
“A benefit to being rich is also being influential. You are legally my wife. The wedding will come later,” he says with conviction and without a shred of emotion.
“How?” I am about to hyperventilate despite wearing an oxygen mask.
He leans forward, pulls the remote from my bed, presses the red call button, and speaks into it. “I need ice chips and a cannula for the patient’s oxygen.” He sets the remote back down and looks at me. “I have connections.”
“I don’t want to be married to you.” I am so angry at him. Why is he doing this?
“And I don’t want to be married to you, trust me. This marriage isof convenience. You gave me a child, and now, I also have a wife. I have a reputation to uphold. I’m not going to be seen as a man who fucks around making babies. You are and will always be the only woman I ever marry. So, you’ll be coming home with me. Scream, cry, hire a lawyer—I don’t care. For the next five years, you’re mine.”
Chapter Nine
Beckett
Scarlett and our baby stay in the hospital for fifteen days. Scarlett struggles to recover, possibly because of the emotional turmoil she is experiencing. My little sister Mia is eventually able to visit, and as soon as she does, Scarlett's mood and recovery improve. I understand Scarlett's emotional stress because I am facing something similar. I absolutely do not want to be married. Scarlett is beautiful—stunning, in fact. She is perfect arm candy, especially in the circles where I run. She is, however, strong-willed, infuriating, and bratty. She is a mirror of my younger sister, and honestly, I don't have the bandwidth for either of them.
Marrying Scarlett is easy. I have a marriage license forged. Her signature is expertly copied from documents she signed when she accepted her job in the corps de ballet at the New York City Ballet. We are officially registered in the state of New York as Mr. and Mrs. Beckett Myers. I doubt we will ever have a wedding or a reception; however, the Quattro suggests we should for optics. Since Scarlett is still recovering from birth and sustaining traumatic injuries, I don't have to worry about any of the logistics for a while.
I make sure my publicist puts out news articles highlighting the tragedy of Scarlett's accident. It is a stroke of absolute serendipity that Scarlett is Mia’s friend because it makes my story work. The publicistand I spin it so that it states I fell in love with my sister's best friend. I wasn’t able to stop myself from our whirlwind love affair, and we got married privately in a ceremony we kept secret.
The article explains that I don't want anyone to impede on my wife's privacy because she is pregnant and a dancer for the New York City Ballet. Scarlet's life story fits very nicely into the narrative I need to spin.
We still have to name our child. This accidental child will be my one and only offspring.
“What were you planning on calling her?” I ask after the shock of learning that we are married abates.
