Page 13 of Punishing His Runaway Bride

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Black lace, still damp, wrinkled mess.

I pulled it on, snatched my bag, went to the door, hand on the handle.

I stood a moment, didn't look back, then pushed out and left.

I quit the club job.

Went to Maria the next day, told her I was done.

After that, I got work at a coffee shop. That night's earnings covered some interest; the fat guy gave me three more months.

Life settled back—early rises, shifts, calls to Sophie, sleep.

Day after day.

I thought I could forget that night, forget him, forget those deep brown eyes.

But I couldn't.

Especially not in the coffee shop bathroom, puking my guts out over the toilet.

"Four weeks pregnant."

The doctor's voice stayed calm.

I sat in the exam room, staring at the test results, mind blank.

Four weeks.

From that night I thought was just an accident, impulsive payback.

Now it was a real life.

My hand pressed my stomach.

Still flat, nothing showing. But I knew a tiny life grew there.

Damn, so that night I should've at least made him wrap it.

"Want some vitamins?" the doctor asked. "Or..."

She trailed off.

I should've aborted.

I could barely feed myself; how could I raise a kid? And the father—that guy with the insulting note—didn't know, wouldn't care.

But I couldn't say it.

"I'll think about it." My voice rasped.

Outside the hospital, sun blinded me.

I looked down, fingers clenching the paper.

What now?

I didn't know.

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