“For God’s sake.”
A frustrated six foot eight of muscle on my front doorstep definitely isn’t something I’m in the mood for. He also isn’t someone likely to go away without telling me what he wants to. “How long d’you need?”
“Fifteen minutes, give or take a few.”
“Just… Let me get set up, then you can come in.” I stomp off to the bedroom to get Molly’s feeding blanket and rid myself of my shoes. My bad mood rubs off on her and by the time I re-emerge in the dining room with everything I need, she’s in hysterics and I’m seriously close to joining her.
Effie takes her while I unbutton my blouse and unhook my maternity cup, then gently hands her back, rubbing the baby’s cheek with her curled forefinger when she turns her head the wrong way.
Just that is enough to push me close to tears again. It doesn’t matter how many times I feed my baby, I never feel like I’m doing it right. My boobs are too swollen or too empty or too filled with foods I shouldn’t eat, not when I’m providing most of my daughter’s nutrients along with my own and we’d all prefer she didn’t turn into a ready-made microwave dinner.
But none of that stops me scarfing down half a box of sugar labelled as a breakfast cereal when I get up in the night, feeling guilty the whole time because why am I doing so badly at this job when I have so much help?
Caylon is fantastic and Effie gladly takes Molly off our hands if we need her too (and frequently when we don’t.)
It should be enough. It’s all far more than I deserve. A ton more help than my mother had, or Effie.
I’m spoiled rotten and still want more.
“Hey,” Effie says, giving me a one-shouldered hug, so she doesn’t disturb my daughter. “You had a bad night. It’s okay. I can tell him to piss off properly if you really don’t want to deal with him.”
The offer is one I’d gladly take her up on, but that would just leave me stewing about why he came here and what he wanted to talk about.
“It’s fine.” I push down all my emotions and dredge up a smile. “And even if it’s not, it’ll be over in fifteen minutes.”
“Longest fifteen minutes ever,” she intones, waggling her eyebrows as she exits the room to hunt down Stefan.
He eyes me warily as he enters the room, like I’m the one who doesn’t belong here. I try to remember that when I absolutely could not fight my own battle, he came through, offering me a chance. A chance to blow Wilbur’s brains out and save Caylon’s life.
A chance that, given his position, he couldn’t take himself.
“She’s a real cutie.”
She should be hidden behind her blanket, but I shift in my seat, nodding at the compliment even if I don’t like it. I never like it when people comment on Molly’s appearance.
The most effusive praise sounds like they’re adding her to a list of future trafficking targets, and anything less is purely insulting when she’s obviously worth so much more.
Stefan leans over to brush his finger across her cheek and Molly waggles her fist. “She’s working on a mean right hook,” I tell him, wishing he would stand further away. Like maybe Auckland. Sydney. Antarctica.
I rearrange the blanket one-handed, and he takes the cue to move back, choosing a seat instead of hulking above me.
“I’ve been in a lot of meetings with Wilbur’s accountants. Probate finally came through and they’re readying the estate for distribution.”
I nod along though the words don’t hold much interest. Stefan seems to think his focus on money extends to the entire world. Even now, after signalling that I’m paying attention, he seems mildly upset I’m not eager to hear more.
“I gave them the paperwork for this little one,” he says, reaching forward to touch Molly’s cheek again.
It takes everything I have not to snatch her away, something that easily transmits through my muscle tension, so she fusses and pulls away early, only settling again when I switch her to the other side. A transition that wears on my last nerve.
“With the way his finances were structured, a lot of the investments were within a trust that will continue to be bundled with his companies. Obviously, he made no provision for his daughter because—”
“Don’t call her that.”
My nostrils flare as Stefan jerks back, looking askance at my sudden outburst. “I didn’t mean—”
“I don’t care what you meant. She’s my daughter. She’s Caylon’s daughter. No one else gets to claim credit.” The latter words are muffled as my throat tightens.
I’m not even fully sure why I’m so upset. Even if the reality feels different, on paper she is Wilbur’s daughter. A truth that my brain firmly rejects.
