When I was younger, my parents decorated our house themselves. I remember music playing, my mum laughing, my dad pretending he knew what he was doing. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours. Those moments, those memories, they’re something I hold dear now.
You don’t get that when you pay someone.
“Wynter?” he presses. I dip the brush back into the paint and carry on, hoping he’ll take the hint. He doesn’t. “You can’t ignore me. We need to talk about what I said.”
Dickhead.That’s the last thing I want to do.
“I’m not planning to take your baby from you,” he says, his tone shifting, more serious now. “I want us to raise him or her together.”
That’s not what he said. I heard him.Every word.
“Wynter,” he tries again, softer this time. “Let’s just talk about this like adults, yeah?”
There it is. That dig about the age gap. I grit my teeth and keep painting.
“Jesus, you are so frustrating,” he growls. “I don’t know what to say to get through to you. You’re carrying my child and I can’t even fucking talk to you.”
I place the tin down harder than necessary and turn, heading for the door. I’m not doing this.
His hand wraps around my wrist before I make it two steps. “No,” he snaps. “You’re not walking away without talking about this.”
I glance down at where he’s holding me, then back up at him.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask, my voice cold. “Tell me, Ray. I’ll say it. Would that make this easier for you?”
His jaw tightens. “I want you to hear me out,” he says. “I want you to let me explain what you overheard.”
I yank my wrist free. “I heard you perfectly fine,” I fire back. “And let me make something very clear—I am not the same girl that walked into this apartment a year ago.” I step closer, my heart hammering but my voice steady. “You will never take my child from me. And if you try . . .” I tilt my head slightly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I’ll slit your throat.”
Silence crashes between us as my chest heaves with anger. The realisation that I mean every single word, doesn’t even scare me, because I’ll die trying to protect my child.
We stare at each other, neither of us backing down.
Then he moves fast. His hands come up, cupping my face, and before I can react, his mouth crashes against mine.
It’s not gentle, or careful, but desperate.
His tongue forces past my lips like he’s trying to take something back, like he’s trying to prove something to us both. My breath catches, my body betraying me instantly—heat rushing through me, my toes curling against the floor as everything I’ve been holding back surges to the surface.
For a second—
just one— I almost give in.
My fingers twitch at my sides, wanting to grab him, wanting to feel him properly, wanting to lose myself in something familiar. Something dangerous. Then it hits me.
Everything he said.
Everything he did.
And I shove him hard. “Don’t,” I snap, my voice shaking as I put space between us.
He stumbles back slightly, just as stunned as I am. We stare at each other, both breathing too fast.
“That doesn’t fix anything,” I add, wiping my mouth like I can erase the way it made me feel.
His chest rises and falls, his jaw tight, eyes dark with desire. “Go to bed,” he mutters roughly, dragging a hand through his hair. I frown. “Lock your door,” he adds, his voice low, strained. “And don’t open it. No matter what I say. No matter how much I knock.”
There’s something dangerous in the warning.
