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A baby.
Nothing logical or coherent is happening in my head right now. It’s swimming in shock. I release the tissue box, grasp the edge of the sink, tell myself to breathe.
It doesn’t help.
When I lost Becca and the baby, I wasn’t sure I’d ever want a wife or a child again. The necessity of getting married soon became apparent, however. I could barely function without organization, and my practicality persuaded me that finding another wife was the best solution. Fine. Then Nia came along. Not exactly as planned, but in many ways better than I dared to hope. Yet more hellish because I never wanted to feel again. And now?
A baby.
That news keeps flashing through my brain like a neon sign, but it hasn’t really sunk in. I resist the urge to punch the framed mirror over the sink. I’m not a violent man, and I won’t stoop to a childish, destructive compulsion. But it’s tempting.
I need to return to Nia. I need to say something that will make it better. First, I need to figure out what that might be.
Yeah, I’m freaked out. But she’s scared. She’s worried she’s going to end up like her mother—alone and single because the selfish prick she gave herself to left. But I know all too well what it’s like to be without a father. I know how many years I spent resenting the hell out of Barclay Reed for leaving me to the dubious mercy of the foster care system because the son he’d inconveniently conceived with his secretary cramped his style or whatever.
That won’t happen to my child.
I’m going to go back into the living room, hold Nia’s hands, and find some way to convince that woman to be my wife. We’re going to have this baby together. I will not lose my shit because she’s pregnant. I will not walk away. I refuse to hurt her.
A baby.
I let out a shuddering breath, then somehow manage to compose myself, grab the box of tissues, and head back down the hall to comfort the woman I intend to marry.
But when I reach the living room again, Nia, her tears, and her purse are all gone.
Chapter Fourteen
Thirteen texts and half a dozen phone calls to Nia. All of them unanswered.
In the middle of that, I searched her social media and found the names of friends and past lovers. Methodically, I hunted down their phone numbers and called each one. I even gritted my teeth as I talked to Kyle.
No one has seen her tonight.
Afterward, I spent two hours driving to places I thought she might go. Lorenzo and Guilia haven’t laid eyes on her. Ditto for Bas. The BBB Revue was locked up tight.
Still no sign of Nia.
It’s damn near ten p.m. Anger and panic are carving up my composure. Where the fuck could she be? The waiting. The wondering. They remind me too much of that fucking April afternoon I never saw Becca again. That time, I hadn’t known anything was wrong until the police arrived at my office. Her death disordered my world.
Losing Nia would destroy me.
Terrified, I grip the steering wheel with one hand and begin dialing police stations with the other, barking questions and damn near biting people’s heads off.
If—no, when—I catch up with Nia, I’m putting a tracker on her car, her phone, and anywhere else I can think of. I can’t believe she fucking walked out of the house and left me. Is she trying to say we’re through? No. It can’t be over. I won’t let it be, not unless she says that to my face. Even then, I intend to do everything in my power to persuade her to stay in my life. I’ll beg her to marry me. Hell, I’ll skywrite my proposal.
Will you tell her you love her?
Do I? I’m starting to have suspicions, but how am I supposed to know for sure? Even if I’ve totally fallen, would she believe me if I said the words now?
Just in case she went to my penthouse, I stop there. The minute I walk in the door, I know the unit is empty. Not only is no one inside, but it’s devoid of emotion. It always has been. After spending time with Nia, I comprehend that.
I lived under this roof for three years. Becca and I rarely smiled or laughed here. We never argued here. We hardly had sex here, either. We didn’t share passion. We didn’t share hopes. We shared hours. We shared space. We shared money.
That wasn’t a marriage.
Jesus, I didn’t love her.
I’ll have to call Bas later and tell him he was right. He’ll enjoy that.
