George slapped a hand over his mouth, totally forgetting his notepad and pen. “Oh, that’s tragically awful.” Getting up, he came to squat in front of me.
Jethro glowered at him as George took my hand and kissed my knuckles. “It’s okay though…that little one wasn’t meant to be, but you can try again. You can have other babies.” His gaze flashed to Jethro. “Can’t you? You’re both young. It’s only natural to create your own family and make this love story complete.”
“Yes, quite,” Jethro muttered, tugging me away from George’s caressing fingers.
I fought Jethro’s hold, clutching onto George. If Jethro wanted the world to believe we were together and happy then it was his turn to play along with my farce.
Letting a sob free, I wailed, “That’s the problem. Something happened….” I narrowed my eyes at Jethro, letting him see my wrath and hate for what he’d done.
You took away the one weapon I might’ve had to free us.
George clutched my fingers tighter, completely buying my story. “Oh no, not more bad news?”
Imbecile.
Leech.
As lovely as he seemed, I couldn’t stand what he represented. He was there to make my family look like liars and the Hawks to smell like roses. They would tarnish my brother, break my father’s heart even more, and make me seem as if I was a scatter-brained lovesick child completely out of her depth.
I mean to change all that.
“I was told the conception was a miracle. That I have a rare disorder that might mean I’ll never conceive again. The doctor said I might die if I ever carried a child full term, but he knew I wouldn’t give up. It’s my ultimate dream—the one thing I have to have.”
Jethro growled, “Nila, no need to tell the world our—”
“Jethro's father, Bryan Hawk, loves me like a daughter. He arranged for the doctor to give me a contraceptive, completely against my will. He said if I tried to bear the child of my soul-mate, I might die, and he couldn’t have that on his soul!” I let ugly, wet sobs spew forth, hurling myself into the performance.
George went white, his face half enthralled with having a delicious story to tell and half full of heartbroken sorrow. “Oh, you poor thing. You poor, poor—”
Jethro sniffed, physically untangling George’s fingers from mine and pushing him away. Pulling me into his body, he snapped, “It’s been a hard time for all of us.” Standing, he yanked me to my feet.
His eyes shot a warning.
What the hell are you doing?
Anger radiated, but beneath it all was the faintest shadow of horror. Did he believe my tale? How did he feel to know what he’d done when I might’ve been carrying his child?
Does it make you sick? I blazed my own silent message. Does it rip out your insides to think you might’ve killed your own flesh and blood?
Before I could seek answers in his eyes, he looked away.
“I’m sorry, but the interview is over.” Jethro stood to his full height, his suit looking crisp compared to his ruffled exterior.
I’d come into this as a victim, but I’d stolen the show.
I felt redeemed.
They might’ve stolen my plans of pregnancy, but I’d just stolen theirs.
I was no longer the meek little woman. I was the strong barren woman destined to live with a man she adored and never get pregnant. The media would direct their sympathy onto me—they would be kinder to my family, less likely to slander my last name.
And should all my scheming fail and it came time for me to pay the Final Debt, I might have some chance of rallying them to save me.
George stood up, his fingers fluttering over his camera. “Ah, can we bother you for some pictures? Before we conclude for the day?”
Jethro’s nostrils flared. “No, I think my girlfriend needs to lie down. This has—”
“Now, honey, don’t hide the truth from them.” I wiped beneath my eyes, hoping he saw my challenge.
I’m not done with you yet.
Jethro’s eyebrows knitted together. “We haven’t hidden anything, my love.” He smiled thinly, pinching my arm where George couldn’t see.
“Wait—what are you talking about, Ms. Weaver?” Sylvie asked.
I smiled radiantly. “I’m not just his girlfriend.”
Jethro sucked in a breath.
George bounced on the spot with anticipation. “What do you mean?”
Beaming at Jethro, I said, “I’m his fiancée. We’re getting married.”
WHAT IN THE ever-loving fuck was she doing?
My mind scrambled; a terrible lancing pain stabbed my temples.
Was she pregnant?
Did she miscarry?
What the fuck did it mean if she was pregnant? What would the contraceptive do?
I shook my head, trying to get my erratic breathing under control. I couldn’t think about those things—not while the reporters were here, watching our every move.
Pills.
I need another pill.
Nila suddenly nuzzled into my chest, wrapping her bony arms around my waist. Collecting her last night, I’d noticed she looked skinnier than normal. But I knew her well—I knew she would’ve run every night on her treadmill, knew she would’ve overworked herself to forget.
But what if she’s telling the truth and was sick?
Did that become an extra issue with what my father had planned? And why did I even care? I shouldn’t care.
Do something about it.
Shoving her away, I fumbled in my pocket and yanked out the bottle. Tapping two tablets into my palm, I threw them down my throat and swallowed them dry.
My heart raced as I tucked the bottle back into my pocket and jerked my hands through my hair. Knowing I had something that helped—that the drug’s fog wisped through my blood—allowed me to regain control on the flapping mess Nila had created.
“Headache?” George asked, his eyebrow raised at my pocket.
Nila narrowed her gaze, too, incorrect conclusions filling her sniper glare. With the way she was behaving, I didn’t want her anywhere near my newfound cure. Slipping back into welcome numbness, I gathered her close and smiled for the damn journalists. “Yes, sorry. While Nila has been going through some terrible ordeals lately, I’ve suffered my own stress.”
Sylvie came closer, her eyes pooling with sympathy. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.”
See, Nila, two can play at this game.
I waved it away as if I was a martyr only focused on the love of his life. “Only a few headaches, but I can’t tell you how happy I am to have her home.” I jostled Nila closer, planting a kiss on her forehead. “I missed you so much.”
Nila squirmed, her lips thinning with frustration. “Me, too. I just wish you’d been there when I lost the baby instead of on business.”
Our eyes locked—the challenge in hers made my fingers dig into her side harder than I intended.
Watch what you bloody say.
I hoped she got my message because I was at the end of my patience. Cut would be watching somewhere—making sure I didn’t fucking fail. Once we were free of our audience, she had a shit-load of explaining to do.
Ignoring Nila, I smiled at George and Sylvie. “But that’s all in the past, and we’ve dwelt too long on that already.”
George looked like he might argue, but I used the same trump card Nila had. “Let’s discuss something a lot more exciting.” I narrowed my eyes on my target: Sylvie would help guide the conversation to safer ground. “We’re getting married. Let’s talk about that.”
NO, LET’S TALK about those drugs you just swallowed.
Was it true he had a headache? Or was there something more sinister in that tiny bottle?
Sylvie clutched her heart, swooning a little. “It’s so romantic. Star-crossed lovers reunited after lies and a miscarriage split them apart.”
I let her turn my attention back to the stage-show but made a mental note to steal Jethro’s pills the first chance I had. I had to know what they were.
“It’s so tragically perfect.” Sylvie’s eyes were dreamy and dumbstruck by Jethro’s undivided attention. He held the poor woman enraptured with his piercing golden gaze.
I nodded.
It was perfect.
Love and wealth and family.
Pity it’s all a heinous lie.
“If Vanity Fair would be interested, you’re more than welcome to an exclusive when I’ve finished designing my wedding gown.” I hadn’t even thought of saying that. My own lie snowballed, gathering faster and faster momentum.
If I had a future engagement with the magazine, it might make my untimely death more suspicious. If the debts took me, would they dig a little harder and uncover the truth? Then again, knowing the Hawks, they would spin some plausible tale, and I would be forgotten.
“Wow, that’s a fantastic offer. Thank you, Ms. Weaver,” George said. “We’d be delighted, of course.”
“Excellent.”
Jethro ground his teeth.
Despite his attempts to manipulate the conversation, he was in my shadow this morning. I had no intention of giving him the limelight. Jethro and his father had forced me to do this. But I would do it my way. I hadn’t broken any of Cut’s rules. I’d played along. I’d painted a picture for the world to eat up.