Midwife's Longed-for Baby & the Prince's Cinderella Bride & Bride for the Single Dad (9781488022142)

by Anderson, Caroline; Berlin, Amalie; Taylor, Jennifer

  She slid out of the bed, got up, got her clothes.

  By the time Ratliffe woke and began making demands—talking about what she owed him—she was ready to go.

  He blocked her path. Reached for her.

  Quinn regretted the rum; his stomach lurched as he helplessly watched her scan the room for an escape.

  It was just a room in a flat. Ratliffe blocked the only door.

  She looked to the side, grabbed something and, without hesitation, smashed into his face.

  The screen went strange and he realized his hands were latched onto the laptop, squeezing, as if he could reach in and grab her out.

  What had she grabbed?

  He forced his hands off the screen and the display smoothed back out.

  Alcohol bottle—Quinn identified the weapon, then the transition. She’d gone from child to adult in that second.

  Ratliffe staggered forward, his hands covering his cheek, blood running through his fingers, and she ran.

  Not how he’d expected the video to end. Through his shock, he couldn’t help but feel proud of her.

  She’d given him that scar. The scar that people would ask him about for the rest of his miserable life.

  Wasted booze. No sex. Puked on. And a lifelong scar? Yeah, that’d cause a wicked grudge. And Quinn hadn’t known anything about their interactions when Ratliffe had come after her for money. In the retelling, she’d sanitized it, and he’d been so wrapped up in the revelation he hadn’t asked. And he’d let him go. Sent him on his way with money, even—something else for him to fix.

  The video told him something else. She had it in her to fight for them, but she’d spent so long fighting for herself she probably didn’t know how to do anything but try and stay safe. Apply the lesson she’d learned.

  Weight seemed to press down on the back of his neck and Quinn sagged into his chair as another realization hit him; he dropped his head into his hands.

  He couldn’t force or coerce her into this.

  He had to sign the papers.

  * * *

  The clock had long past struck midnight by the time Quinn had stopped reeling enough to think straight and start moving again.

  Detective called, reports—minimal as they were—gathered, Ratliffe was still in his new flat in his new country.

  Though he’d been unable to even contemplate sleep, he had managed to stop drinking in time to be sober enough to drive by eight the next morning, the absolute latest minute he could wait to go to her.

  Sharon answered the door almost as soon as he rang the bell, the first thing he’d been thankful for in nearly fourteen hours.

  “Oh, no, Quinton Corlow. The last time you came, you said you weren’t going to upset her, but you did. If you want to talk to my daughter, you can do it through a lawyer.”

  She shoved at the door and he braced his shoulder against it. “Wait. I brought something Anais will want.” He lifted the bedraggled yellow envelope and held it up to the narrow opening so Sharon could see it. Divorce papers.

  Hope was the only thing keeping him upright—that and a plan only an idiot would take comfort in.

  It took a few tense seconds, but she begrudgingly opened the door and let him inside, calling over her shoulder, “Anais, Prince Quinton is here.”

  Score one for Team Hope. Now just a few more…

  Quinn followed the direction Sharon called and, to his surprise, Anais came around a corner from what he could only assume was the direction to the kitchen, considering the apron covering her torso and the flour dusting it.

  “You’re baking?” He couldn’t help the question; he’d never really witnessed her doing much at all in the kitchen. She made an occasional burnt grilled cheese, but…

  “I do that sometimes.”

  As she neared, he could see from the circles under her red puffy eyes that she’d not slept either.

  Another spark of hope.

  “Can we talk?”

  He breathed as slowly as he could, and hoped he didn’t pass out from lack of oxygen. She needed his confidence, even if it was a big fat lie right now.

  She led the way up the stairs, another thing to be thankful for—this would be hard enough without his mother-in-law giving him the evil eye.

  Once they’d stepped into her meticulously clean bedroom, he went to the desk, pulled out the chair and sat. Maybe that would help his agitated body need less oxygen. Also, his roiling stomach made it hard to keep steady on his feet.

  Give her what she wants, then give her a reason to fight for them.

  “You haven’t gone to the press yet, have you?”

  She stopped in the middle of the room and wrapped her arms around herself the way he itched to. “I assumed you’d want to do that.”

  Want to.

  He sucked in a deep breath and felt his cheeks puff as he let it back out. “It’s probably better if all marriage announcements come through the palace.”

  It was as diplomatic as he could be without lying to her, and he wasn’t going to lie to her. Not today. No matter how much easier it would be to make up some story about Ratliffe meeting an untimely and wholly satisfying “accident.”

  She swayed on her feet, and he noticed she still wore yesterday’s clothing. Another nod to hope.

  Give her what she wants.

  Opening the battered envelope, he extracted the documents he knew she’d recognize, and held them out to her. “I signed them and checked with the attorney to make sure they’re still viable.”

  She watched with uneasiness and pain he’d give the rest of his hand for the opportunity to soothe away.

  “When will you file them?”

  Give her a reason to fight for them.

  “I’m not,” he said and, when she didn’t take them, he laid them with the envelope on her desk and turned back to her. “I’m leaving them for you to file.”

  “Oh.” She braced for the hit he had to throw.

  He’d do it while looking her in the eye, but he wouldn’t crowd her. He stood.

  “I’m not doing this because I want a divorce. I don’t ever want to be apart from you. You deserve more than some sketchy mistress situation. You deserve to be my wife, Anais. We deserve to have a family together. But I can’t force you into this. Grandfather has my will held hostage by a promise, and it feels…”

  “Bad,” she softly supplied when his words faltered.

  “And like he’s not really living, even though the temporary port is fine until the new graft heals enough to use. Not living, just breathing. Existing. I don’t want that for you. I don’t want you afraid and unhappy, even if it means I get to have you with me.”

  She shifted on her feet, her arms staying around her body though her hands pulled away, flexing and rolling at the wrist. Tense. “Thank you. That’s kinder than I deserve.”

  The words hurt. “No, baby.” His voice broke and her eyes—those eyes he so loved—snapped to meet his, then widened at the tears he felt wetting his cheeks.

  Make her fight for them.

  Pulling the portable USB drive from his pocket, he let himself cross to her. Taking her hand almost broke him. It might be the last time she let him touch her, and he might be wasting it. Turning her hand over, he placed the storage device on her palm.

  “The photos are in the envelope. I didn’t look at them.”

  Her hand shook.

  “But I did watch the video.”

  Color drained from her face and she stepped back. “Why?” She would’ve pulled away if he hadn’t held fast, needing to keep the connection. It was the only thing that prevented that sharp knife he felt at his throat from carving into him.

  “I needed to know what I was fighting. I’ve been doing what you and Philip both said I do—waiting for
things to work out. You didn’t know what to tell people—to tell our children—if it came to public scrutiny. I do now.”

  The short, soft, mirthless laugh said nothing could excuse this.

  He tugged enough to get her closer so he could say words that should never be shouted.

  “I’d say that feeling alone is terrible for anyone, let alone a child, but you were still strong enough to fight through it. I’d say an evil man hurt you, but you got away and never let it keep you from becoming the amazing woman you are. I’d say…we all make bad decisions when we’re hurting, and that’s the reason you can’t let people stay alone. That’s why we fight for people we love. That’s why we fight for people who can’t fight for themselves.”

  Her bitter, teary expression became wary again, then just closed.

  “You need to watch it,” he whispered through a tight throat and let go of her hand. “But not alone. I really don’t want to see it again, but I’ll watch it with you if you need me.”

  She’d heard him, because she looked at the drive as if to make sure it was still in her hand.

  “I don’t need to watch it. I remember everything.”

  “I don’t think you do, or you’re just holding that girl to impossible standards.”

  She closed her hand over the drive, her chin falling as she stared at it.

  “How old were you?”

  “It was the week of my sixteenth birthday,” she answered, but didn’t look like she knew why she had.

  Days before the age of consent. It didn’t really matter—there was no way for him to make that right, but it did ease him a tiny bit.

  “Watch it with Sharon, okay?”

  “Quinn…”

  “Please. You need to see this. That girl made a mistake, and you don’t deserve to spend the rest of your life afraid of a teenage error in judgment. Watch it; you’ll understand.”

  He tried to be calm but heard the desperation in his own voice.

  And he couldn’t tell if he’d got through. Her head kept shaking. It didn’t look like she was telling him no, more like she couldn’t accept what she was hearing. It didn’t jibe with what she thought she knew, so disbelief rattled her.

  “If he tried to sell that video to any news organization, he would be lynched. He was an adult, which is a crime. It wouldn’t matter if you’d been old enough in hours. Legally, he’d be screwed if he tried to show that video to anyone.”

  At this point, he wasn’t sure she was hearing him. She didn’t answer, but she had stopped shaking her head and seemed more together than he had been most of the night.

  It felt as if he should stay with her, but he had to give her time to work through this and still squeeze in a trip down the aisle.

  Which brought him to the last bit… The scariest bit.

  “One more thing.” His hands shook, so he stuffed them into his pockets, then thought better of that and hung his arms at his sides as still and casual as he could, but no amount of trying to slow his breathing would work. “I’m not calling off the wedding. I can’t picture my life any other way than with you in it. If you come to the church on Saturday, I plan on making that life we’ll share amazing. I’ll always fight for you and for us, but I need you to fight too.”

  She looked at him again, still listening. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m leaving here and I’m going to talk to the press to make sure they don’t blame you for this if you watch that video and decide you still can’t be there. I’ll do whatever I can to help you stay in the country, or go wherever you want to go if that’s your decision.”

  His finger seemed to throb where the ring sat, the thing that had bolstered him through this. Quietly, he pulled it from his finger and placed it gently atop the divorce papers on her desk, framing her decision with two opposite choices.

  With everything he’d thrown at her, there was no way for her to come to any decision right now. If she did, it’d still be No without watching the video, and she needed space to do that.

  Quinn kissed her forehead, repeated the date, time and location of the wedding for her, asked she watch the video one more time and excused himself while his legs still held him.

  All he could do now was wait. And pray…

  * * *

  Quinn had been gone for over an hour when Anais heard Mom gently tapping on her bedroom door.

  “I’m okay,” she called, hoping it was enough to get a little more quiet alone time to make sense of the things Quinn had said.

  The one thing, mostly.

  Signing the papers was an act of love. The rest of it…some kind of faith she couldn’t even process.

  On some level, she knew it was the kind of thing people—especially stupid people like her—would live their entire lives waiting to hear. The kind of words that should bring relief. But she felt nothing. Not even happy to know he hadn’t been lying about the depth of his love.

  How could she feel happy about that now?

  Numb was at least okay enough to not be actively falling apart like she’d been all night.

  “Did he take the papers to submit to court?” Still through the door.

  The papers. From where she sat on the edge of the bed, she could only focus on that beautiful ring sitting on top of something so ugly.

  “He left it up to me,” she answered, then the door opened. With a deep, fortifying breath, she added, “I don’t want you to worry about this. Stress kicks you out of rhythm, and I’m going to be fine. You don’t need to worry.”

  “You don’t look fine, baby girl. You have no color in your face, and you look like you’ve just witnessed a public execution.”

  * * *

  Watch the video with Mom, he’d said. As if she could bear anyone else she loved to know such things, let alone witness them. Drinking. Making out. Nudity. Then the best part, where she smashed Ratliffe’s face up with a bottle of cheap rum.

  All that was her burden to bear. Consequences for bad judgment and immaturity. Life had handed her a lesson—or she’d grabbed it with both hands—and she’d learned from it.

  “Sometimes I wish I’d never met him. Then I wouldn’t have had to leave him, hurt him… Hurt me.” The words came out and the numbness left in a blink. “But then maybe I’d be someone worse if things had gone another way. Or I guess maybe I’d be someone better too.”

  “Worse implies that you’re bad now. You’re not.” Mom came fully inside and used the apron she wore to wipe the tears from Anais’s cheeks.

  “I feel like I am.”

  “What did Quinton say?”

  She shook her head, sifting words for the ones she could share. “That he still wants me, but he won’t force me because he needs me to fight for us too. I just don’t think there can be a peaceful ride off into the sunset with him. There’s just riding, and more riding, and no end to the riding. I’m not strong enough for this.”

  Quinn’s summary didn’t match what had happened, and the parts that did match weren’t parts that made it any less shameful, pathetic, or stupid.

  “You’re strong when you need to be. We both are. We’ll get through this, whatever you decide.”

  Support. The last thing she deserved. The trouble was she didn’t know what the least selfish thing for her to do was. “I need to sleep. It’s after ten a.m.; that’s close enough to nap time.”

  If she gave up her alcohol abstinence, maybe she could sleep her way through the wedding day he refused to cancel.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  COCOONED FROM THE WORLD, Anais passed the rest of the day and night alternating between sleep and staring at the small drive Quinn had left.

  Morning came again, as it always did, and she considered ordering alcohol because now she missed the numbness she’d had in that first hour. Anything was b
etter than this cycle of self-loathing and skepticism.

  A knock at her door summoned her out of bed. A short conversation with Mom later, and Anais found herself on the sofa downstairs.

  “I waited a whole day, and now you have to watch this.”

  “What is it?” Anais asked, focusing on the television.

  Please God, not the video.

  It wasn’t. Whatever Mom had recorded started to play and she saw him. Quinn, but this time not in the formal attire he’d worn for his last press conference. He looked much as he’d done yesterday standing in her bedroom, making claims about the video that didn’t stack up with the facts she knew to be as true as his hollow, haggard expression.

  It hurt to see him. Would always hurt to see him but, after a while—a long while—it could scar over. It had last time. Kind of. It had become older pain, which was at least something peaceful. Something better than this place where her ribs felt as if they were broken and unable to generate the suction required to draw her next breath.

  “Can you just summarize it for me? I can’t watch him…”

  Her broken sob stopped the words. The television clicked off and Mom laid her hand gently on Anais’s head, then started smoothing her hair.

  “He said, with the way things went for you during your marriage before—being attacked all the time in the media, and disparaged as not good enough for him—you’re getting more and more afraid it will go back to that after the wedding.”

  Gritting her teeth, Anais tried to turn off her emotions again, but all she managed was to wring her hands until the skin burned, and slow, quiet tears.

  “Okay,” she said, but she still couldn’t see how that would make things better. Maybe he was shifting the blame onto the press?

  “And you might not be able to make that leap again. That you’re afraid of your babies inheriting this stigma, but you haven’t made up your mind yet. You’re going to take all the time up to the wedding to decide, he said.”

  “That’s not totally true,” she said, needing Mom to know the truth, even if she couldn’t tell anyone else. “But I guess I didn’t say no when he pitched it. I didn’t say much of anything.”