I hold little Rayne in my arms as I watch the city traffic below. She is the most perfect baby. I could stare at her forever. I haven't seen Beckett for almost three days. Granted, I am not allowed out of my room under the pretense that I am too sick to walk around. I am living in a massive New York penthouse and have no idea where the kitchen is or what is on the floors below or above me.
I am essentially his prisoner. I have a nurse named Gloria who is kind and attentive and another nurse named Stephanie who does the night shift. They never let me keep Rayne for longer than an hour because they think I will get overworked. Every other hour, I am able to hold my baby. My current hour is almost up, and Gloria walks into my room as if on cue to take Rayne back since I’ve just finished nursing her.
“Can’t I keep her for a little while longer?” I beg.
I don't just want to spend more time with my daughter. When Gloria takes her away, I will be alone in that room again.
Beckett gave me a brand-new iPhone and transferred all my apps and pictures from my old one. When I asked about my old phone, he just told me I wouldn't need it anymore. I have a 65-inch television on the wall with every channel I can imagine as well as a tablet reader to download books or listen to them with a pair of high-end noise-canceling earphones. There is an extensive menu from which I can order from the chef, and a wardrobe full of clothes that Beckett thinks I look good in. All of them are high-end designer pieces that have been tailored to my measurements.
Frankly, all I want to do is wear comfortable clothes because I still feel quite ragged and raw. Beckett has not allowed me to see my friends, though Mia visits every day; however, she is only allowed to stay for half an hour.
“You are still recovering from an unassisted vaginal birth, a collapsed lung, a broken leg and ribs, and a skull fracture.” Beckett always pauses on that one when rattling off the list of my injuries as a reason for me to never leave my bed or see my friends and child. “You may not care about your health and longevity, but I certainly do.”
Being fake-married to a doctor sucks.
“And when will you let me see my friends?” I ask, hoping I am glaring though it still hurts my head to do it.
“Never, if you don’t change your attitude.” Oh, he is so infuriating.
“Are you afraid I’ll say nasty things about you?”
He offers me a hateful glance in return. “Of course, that is a concern, but I’m not necessarily worried about a bouncer or a ballet dancer blowing my reputation apart.”
“You’re such an old man and a fucking elitist!” It isn’t my best comeback, but ugh, he is irritating.
“And you’re such a bratty child who knows shit about life and caring for herself. How the hell are you going to take care of my daughter?”
“That’s not fair. We can throw shit at each other, but leave Rayne out of it. I’m a great mother and you know it. You’re just afraid of my friends because they have personalities and are interesting… and they love me. I know you better than you think.”
“Well, at least somebody does,” he says as he storms over to me, picks me up from the chair near the window, and gently puts me in bed, covering me with linens that cost more than my old rent. “Stay in bed. If you’re not here when I come to check on you, I’ll start to keep a tally of all the times I’ll need to punish you when you’re finally healed.”
“Like some BDSM Dom?” There is no way I’d allow that.
“If it gets you to behave.” He crosses his arms over his perfect chest, and he looks like a god.
The silver at his temples catches the light—a reminder that he is a man who has lived and has already garnered the world’s respect. I am barely older than a child. Our age difference seems stark, yet I am wise.He just doesn’t know how wise I am.
“I have kinks,” I say softly. “Instead of threatening me, maybe you should be trying to discover them,” I seductively tease him, edging the desire all men possess. “Maybe we can wear the masks again.” I am outright mocking now. “I know how hard I make you. Perhaps you can bring out the whips and chains and a Santa suit.” I love riling him up.
“Don’t play, little girl.” He leans down and bites my bottom lip, softly, butfuck. “I’ve been at this a lot longer than you have. You fight me because you want to fuck me, and when I say you’re ready, you will.” He bites down harder and then stands up and leaves.
He is right. He leaves me sitting there soaking wet.Damn it.
I wish he could just like me. I would enjoy having a relationship with him. He is sexy and older and loves my best friend almost as much as I do, though he would never admit it. We are as opposite as two people can be; however, we both are strong-willed and powerful in our own ways. I would love to have him just open up and love me… One day. But love isn’t on his bucket list, and I know that.
Being pregnant and alone was the saddest thing I've ever done. My mother had no idea who my father was and never even tried looking for him. She was a drug addict, and there had been a parade of inappropriate males in and out of our home, but she was tough. She never let any of them touch me or talk to me, and there was one thing I knew despite her not being able to do it well: she loved me. I wanted to be better than my mom. I envied and emulated my mother's strength.
When I faced those months of pregnancy alone, I thought about her and what she had gone through. For the first few months, I didn't tell anyone I was pregnant, certainly not Mia, because I was doing exactly what she'd warned me not to. I got knocked up by some rando.
I tried hiding my pregnancy from the dance company and my school, but at four months I was starting to show. Before I was called in for gaining weight or not being toned, I talked with the New York City Ballet and told them I was pregnant. It was an inopportune time, but they understood.
I was absolutely surprised and grateful that Vivienne, the artistic director, was able to offer me a two-month maternity leave from the dance corps. Then, when Beckett called her about the accident, she gave me an indefinite amount of time to return to the corps without incident.
“You’re a wonderful dancer, Scarlett,” Vivienne told me by phone while I was in the hospital. “We’ll hold your place and have one of the apprentices fill in for you. I’m sure they’ll love the chance to prove themselves. You focus on your baby and your recovery.”
I’d been able to continue to dance with them and go to classes until well into my eighth month. I just wore a longer skirt that hid the bump, and I wasn’t the only pregnant dancer in the corps.
Loneliest, however, were the few months when Mia struggled to accept my pregnancy. I told her at the same time I approached the dance company and my school. She didn't take it well, and she didn'thaveto take it well because, at that point, we were going to have a baby in our tiny apartment, and I wasn't sure how I was going to pay for school, child care, and still dance. I was looking at an extremely difficult future.
