He drops his eyes to my ring. “What good is a man who can’t avenge his woman?”
“The wall got bloodied.”
He grunts. “You put down a dog when it attacks people for no reason. You should blow up walls that bruise people as well.”
I say nothing, unsure if he’s joking. It’s impossible to tell with him, since he always speak in that flat, inflectionless way.
“You need coffee?”
Wow.I must look terrible for him to offer. He’s never been this solicitous before.
Elizabeth steps out of the elevator, takes one look at my face and rushes over. “Oh my God,Grace. Are you all right? Do you need a safe place?”
“No. I’m fine,” I say.
“Who did this to you?”
I press my lips together and lower my eyes for a moment, too embarrassed to admit it was my father, and annoyed with myself for feeling ashamed about the incident when I didn’t do anything wrong.
She glances at Tolyan. He shrugs. “She says the wall is bloody.”
She puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. “If you need anything,you tell me, okay? I don’t care what time it is or where you are. Youwillcall me.”
I nod, warmth prickling my eyes. “Thank you.”
She goes into her office, followed by Tolyan. For a fleeting second, I’m tempted to ask if the foundation can help with my mother’s medical bills. The organization has a division that assists with bills for critical care. But just as quickly as the urge pops into my head, I push it away. The fund isn’t infinite, and too many people don’t have the luxury of an asshole father who can shoulder the burden. Elizabeth is the sweetest, so she’d find a way to help me…which would mean that I’d be taking the money away from somebody who desperately needs it.
About half an hour before my lunch break, I get a text from the OB-GYN, confirming my appointment on Friday. I tap the corner of my phone for a moment. Should I ask Huxley if he can join me? It’s his baby too, and Dr. Silverman said we should be able to hear the heartbeat now.
I put a hand over my still-flat belly. It’s so strange to think there’s a life inside. The last time I went, there wasn’t anything except some black-and-white dots and lines on the sonogram monitor. A heartbeat seems like such a massive milestone.
Huxley was upset when I told him about the baby, but surely by now he’s come to accept its existence. He should get to experience the miracle of each developmental stage.
–Me: I have an appointment with OB-GYN this Friday at 3. Want to join me? We should be able to hear the heartbeat for the first time.
–Huxley: I’m going to be in London for a few weeks starting tomorrow, so I’ll have to pass.
I start to type that I could make a recording of the baby’s heartbeat for him, but the next message stops me cold.
–Huxley: My schedule is always tight, and I don’t have time to waste on unimportant matters.
The text feels like a punch to the solar plexus. Pain steals my breath away, and I bite back a soft whimper.How can words hurt so much?Not even Nelson’s cruelty was this agonizing.
Maybe it’s because my hopes for the baby seem doomed. When I was growing up, I wondered why I didn’t have a father. Mom told me he was just away and busy, but he loved me very much. I made cards for him every Father’s Day, Christmas and his birthday, even though some of the nasty kids in school mocked me for making cards for a nonexistent parent. Then when I finally got to meet him, he was unbelievably cold andabrupt. I realized I was nothing more than an unfortunate inconvenience to him, and I felt small and unwanted. Without my mom’s love and support, it would’ve been even more devastating.
I don’t want my child to go through the same gut-wrenching experience. It deserves better. Huxley’s kindness since Nelson’s attack made me think for a moment that maybe we could have a pleasant life together, and he could be a good father for our baby.
I stare at the screen, rereading his response. I don’t know which hurts more—Nelson’s slap or Huxley’s cold-heartedness. Maybe they just hurt in different ways.
My phone buzzes with a call from an unknown contact. I pick it up in case it’s about the changed venue. “The Pryce Family Foundation. Grace Lain speaking.”
“Madison Chilton, Huxley’s assistant. He asked me to help you with the wedding.” Her voice is as smooth and polished as marble—and just as coolly impersonal.
“Yes, he did,” I say, recalling the scene in his office.
“I’m texting you a few wedding invitation designs. Can you tell me which is your favorite?”
My phone vibrates, and I check the three she sent. She must be extremely partial to pink, because the first one isoverwhelminglypink. The second one is gray, which I’m not crazy about because it looks drab and dreary. The third one is a mix of sleek black and white with pink and blue accents, and something about it feels off to me, even though I can’t quite say why.
