Chapter Five
Katie
Two months later …
I sit on the cold toilet in my dark bathroom, staring at the stick in shock. This can’t be right. It’s just not possible. Is it?
These tests can be wrong, and in a flash, I grab the bag from the sink beside me and pull out the second box I bought. You can never be too careful when it comes to this kind of thing, so I figured I’d better get a backup.
I open the new box and dump the instructions onto my lap. I carefully unwrap the stick and hold it against the instructions. Just like the one I already took, it’s simple. Pee on stick, set stick down, wait for results, and stare blankly at stick as your heart practically beats out of your chest. Easy as pie!
So once again, I crouch over the toilet and go a little before setting the stick on the corner of the sink. Then I set the timer on my phone for the recommended waiting period. Oh god, this is pure torture. My bathroom is small, but there’s just enough room for me to pace. After what seems like hours, the timer finally buzzes.
A part of me wants to ignore the stick, except it’s the elephant in the room that also happens to be braying like a donkey. I need to know for sure, though, so I take a step closer and breathe in deeply before letting out all the air in my lungs. Okay. I can do it. Stepping forward once more, I pick up the stick with a shaking hand. Oh god. Two pink lines. Positive.
I am now one hundred percent certain that I’m pregnant.
With my back against the bathroom door, I slide to the floor, still clutching the test in my hand. “Shit,” I say out loud to no one. “How could this happen?”
I think back to the last time I had sex, which isn’t hard to remember at all. Because the last time I had sex was two months ago at Trent’s party. He didn’t use a condom, and he came inside of me many, many times. I thought I was on the pill, but between the stress of planning the party and the heady excitement of being with the billionaire, I must have forgotten my birth control. I do that sometimes when I’ve got a big event to deal with, but it’s never mattered before. I don’t usually sleep with my clients. And the one time I do, I wind up pregnant! Just my luck.
I have to tell Trent, though. He may not have tried to contact me after our hookup that night, but he deserves to know that he’s going to be a father. Plus, I don’t know if I can do this on my own. Raising a child takes a village, and right now, I need every resource I can get my hands on.
My phone sits on the sink where I left it, so I get up off the bathroom floor and pick it up. Thank God I still have Trent’s contact information programmed into my phone from planning the party.
I scroll through my contacts to find Trent’s company phone number and hit dial. The phone rings a couple of times before a friendly voice picks up.
“Moore Technology, this is Wanda speaking. How may I direct your call?”
“Hi Wanda,” I mumble, trying to hide the nervousness in my voice. “My name is Katie, and I own the catering and event planning business that hosted Mr. Moore’s masquerade ball two months ago. I was wondering if I could speak with him?”
To my surprise, she answers right away.
“One moment, please.”
The line goes silent for a few seconds before clicking back on again. But then the bad news comes.
“I’m sorry, Katie, but Mr. Moore is unable to take your call.”
“Oh,” I say, flabbergasted. What should I do? “Um, can I leave a message?”
But this Wanda person is suddenly uber-protective of her boss. Maybe she’s had practice fending off random women who call the company line.
“May I ask what your business is with Mr. Moore?” she asks frostily.
I swallow.
“Um, it’s personal,” I tell her. There is no way I’m going to reveal my pregnancy by leaving a message with this employee.
“Then I will let Mr. Moore know you called,” she replies. With that, Wanda hangs up the phone.
I stare at my now blank screen. That was strange. It was almost like she saw my name on a list and went from kind receptionist to bitchy robot. In fact, Wanda reminded me of Amanda at the end there. Amanda probably trained her personally.
But what should I do now? My mind seizes upon Amanda. After all, the blonde was my contact throughout the entire party planning process. She may hate my guts, but maybe I can convince her to patch me through to Trent?
I don’t want to, but I’m desperate at this point. This would all be so much easier if I’d just gotten his personal number at some point that night. Surely we could’ve squeezed in exchanging our contact info between sex positions?
So heaving a huge sigh, I scroll through my contacts for Amanda’s info. This might be my only hope. Her phone rings for what seems like forever, but she answers just before I give up.
“This is Amanda,” comes that frosty voice.
“Hi Amanda,” I say tentatively. “It’s Katie Martin—I planned the event at Mr. Moore’s home two months ago? I was wondering if I could get Mr. Moore’s contact information. I have some, um, business to discuss with him.”
Amanda snorts in a very unladylike manner. “Any business you have with Mr. Moore will go through me, and right now, I know we won’t be needing your services in the near future. Should we desire your services again, I’ll contact you. Goodbye.”
But I interrupt before she can hang up on me.
“Please, Amanda. I need to talk to him.” I hate the pleading tone in my voice. I hate that I’m at the mercy of this snobby, cold bitch. Unfortunately—and expectedly—there’s no sympathy from the ice queen.
“This is highly unprofessional, Katie,” she says in a chilly voice. “Rest assured, I will inform Mr. Moore of your call. Good day.”
This time, she hangs up before I can say anything more. I want to call her back and beg her for Trent’s number, but it’s impossible. She’s got no heart, and it’d be like trying to squeeze water out of a rock trying to get anything from Amanda.
I have one other option, but I really don’t like it. It makes me seem desperate and borderline crazy, but I realize that’s kind of where I am in life. The man who got me pregnant deserves to know, so I have to physically go to the mansion and tell him. After all, if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed, then Mohammed will have to go to the mansion.
With leaden feet, I walk slowly to my car parked in the apartment complex lot. I remember the way to Trent’s house, but it takes me twenty minutes to convince myself to even turn on the vehicle and drive. And when I make it to Trent’s long driveway, I park the car and just sit there for a while, mind still churning. I don’t even have a plan of action—what do I even say? I’m so anxious I want to hightail it out of the driveway and back home under the covers, hiding from the world. But I have to tell him. It wouldn’t be right to keep mum on an issue this important.
“You can do this,” I tell myself, gripping the steering wheel and letting out a deep breath. My hand finds its way to my stomach, cradling it the way I see pregnant women do all the time. How big is the baby growing inside of me right now? How much bigger will I get? Is it a boy or a girl? Even more importantly, will Trent be excited to hear the news or will he want nothing to do with the child? Can I raise him or her on my own?
Tears form in my eyes at the thought of giving up the baby. I’ve always dreamed of starting a family, but I never thought it would be like this. I pictured a nice house with a nursery decked out with stuffed animals, and a loving husband to boot. The last thing I expected was to accidentally get pregnant after a one-night stand with a rich stranger I’ve met only once.
The only thing that consoles me is the thought of that one night we had. It was an unforgettable night of the most incredible, mind-blowing sex ever. I have those memories to keep me warm still, so taking a deep breath, I compose myself. Slowly, I open my car door and march up the stairs to the mansion entrance. The large, wooden doors have antique brass knockers, but I ring the bell, and it lets out shrill hiss. A minute later, a man dressed in a dark suit opens the door. He’s about the size of a refrigerator.
“How may I help you?” he asks, eyeing me suspiciously.
“I’m Katie Martin, an event planner. I’m here to see Mr. Moore?”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Moore is not expecting any visitors,” the giant man says without a pause. “As his head of security, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
What? Without even asking what this is about? What if I had important business matters to discuss? I take a deep breath.
“Please,” I try again. “It’s very important that I see him.”
Suddenly, a voice sounds from behind the bodyguard.
“What’s all this commotion?” a man with a British accent asks. “Who’s at the door?”
The huge man rolls his eyes.
“I’m handling it, Charles,” he growls, annoyed. “Just some woman asking to meet with Mr. Moore.”
Suddenly, an old man appears behind the security guard, his head popping out from behind one massive shoulder. When he sees me, his eyes flicker with recognition because we met the night of the party.
“Ah, Katie, how are you? Wonderful party you threw last time. Has Mr. Moore failed to send your check?” he asks, puzzled. “He’s usually very good with payments.”
“No, the payment went through fine,” I say quickly. “I just need to speak with him.”
Charles shakes his head regretfully.
“I’m sorry, Miss, but he isn’t available. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
I shake my head miserably.
“No, it’s not that. I just have to see Mr. Moore because it’s very important. And I couldn’t reach him when I called.”
Charles’s face grows shuttered.
“Of course,” he says in a neutral manner, though he’s already beginning to close the door. “I’m afraid he’s been occupied with business. If you’d like, I’ll tell Mr. Moore that you stopped by. Good day now.”
And with that, the door is shut, and I’m left staring at solid wood again. What is it with his staff? It’s like they’re practiced at fending off young women who are desperate to speak with Trent. But the thing is, I’m really desperate and have a pressing issue that can’t wait. I get that he’s an important businessman, but if they just told him who was looking for him, I’m sure he would speak with me…wouldn’t he? I hope so, given the gravity of the situation.
But how do I get a hold of Trent? He’s surrounded by a coterie of people whose job is to keep women like me away. Oh God. What do I do next?
Frankly, I have no idea, so with wobbly legs, I get back into my hatchback and drive home, although I can barely see the road ahead with all my muddled thoughts. I’m overwhelmed by the questions I asked myself earlier. What if I’m never able to reach Trent? What am I going to do with the baby? I can barely support myself with my shaky party planning business. Can I support this child as a single parent?
Knowing I’d just get into an accident from the spiral of thoughts distracting me, I pull over to the side of the road and rest my head against the steering wheel with a groan. My hands move of their own accord to hold my stomach once more. The baby is still so small and helpless, and despite the fact that I know my child is nothing more than a tiny pea right now, love already swells in my heart. I could never terminate or give up the baby for adoption. Even though money’s tight, I have enough to start off, and I’ll just have to work hard the next six months to save as much as possible.
So I take a vow. This isn’t going to be easy, but it’s what’s necessary. I’m going to keep the baby, come hell or high water, and he or she will blossom and be happy … with or without knowing his father.