I really need to tell Miles. I've been putting it off the last couple of days, but it's weighing heavier on me with every passing minute. And of course, Rosie's been up my ass to tell him too. I know she's right – it's just so hard. I've really enjoyed the time we’ve been spending together and I really like the bond that's growing between us. I'm almost positive he does too and that he's starting to think about a future for us.

I don't have any actual proof of that. Just a feeling along with a few comments he's made here and there. Things he's talked about us doing together at some point in the future. It makes me think that he's definitely looking down the road for us. And that prospect makes me insanely happy.

It's crazy to think that we've only known each other for a few weeks.

He's been asking me about coming up to his family's place for Christmas, but I'm not convinced it's a good idea. I mean, I think before I see his family again, I'm going to have to somehow atone for lying to them. I don't know how I'm going to do it, but Miles doesn't think it'll be a big deal. I wish I could be as cavalier about it as he is, but the mere thought of looking into Martha Churchill’s eyes makes me feel incredibly ashamed of myself.

So, that's why I'm making time to tell him today. I have to. I need to get this off my chest. And, if we're actually going to go spend the holidays with his loved ones, he needs to know beforehand. Plus, it might ease the tension that will inevitably fill the room when I walk in and they realize I am not actually Miss Alice Donnelly.

But, first things first, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, or whatever cliché you prefer.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, I pull open the door to the office that, according to the sign, houses the law firm of Beck and Churchill. The lobby is done in marble and is all very tasteful and understated – a lot like Miles' family home.

I cross the lobby and find myself standing at the receptionist's desk. A blonde who looks around my age and, according to her nameplate, is named Trish Gooden, sits behind it. The woman is drop dead gorgeous and dressed impeccably. She's the kind of woman I can see Miles being with – she's got lingerie model good looks. Next to her, I look absolutely homely.

She looks up at me and gives me a warm smile. “Welcome to Beck and Churchill,” she says. “What time is your appointment?”

“I don't actually have an appointment,” I say. “I'm here to see Miles – sorry – Mr. Churchill.”

Her plump, pouty, perfect lips turn down into a frown as she looks at her appointment book. “I'm afraid Mr. Churchill is booked up today and won't be seeing any walk-ins. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“I'm actually not a client,” I explain. “I'm his –”

I bite off my next words simply because I don't know how to fill in that particular blank. What am I to him? We've never discussed our relationship, so it's not like I can call him my boyfriend. We're clearly more than just friends, It's a simple question, but one I don't have a clear answer to.

“I'm a friend of his,” I take the path of least resistance. “I really need to speak with him”

“Yeah, I'm sorry,” Trish the lingerie model says. “Appointments only.”

I sigh and pull my phone out of my bag. I punch the button to call Miles, but it goes straight to voicemail. I really need to do this now, before I lose my nerve. I'm afraid if I walk out the door, my anxiety will win, I'll chicken out and won't tell him for another week. And I have to tell him.

I check the time on my phone and see that it's nearly eleven. He's got to come out for lunch at some point, right? I give Trish a smile and she returns it with one that couldn't be more fake and plastic if she tried. Yeah, I have no trouble believing she was one of the mean girl cheerleader types back in high school. I walk back to the chairs that line the walls in the lobby and have a seat. I'll wait for him to come out.

“He might be tied up all day,” Trish calls to me.

“Oh, that's okay,” I say. “I don't have anything else going on today. Don't you worry about me. I can wait.”

She frowns and narrows her eyes at me – I can tell she's judging me. No, I'm not wearing the latest fashion. I've got on a pair of yoga pants, tennis shoes, and a turtleneck underneath an oversized sweater. I'm not wearing any makeup and my hair is pulled back into a simple ponytail. I'm not the fashionable type that Trish obviously is, and her judgmental looks and pained expressions on her face let me know that.

Bitch.

I lean back in the chair and wait. I have no idea how long I'll be waiting, and hope he doesn't have some secret back door that allows him to escape unseen. I really need to speak with him sooner, rather than later. My courage is hanging on by a thread and that thread might snap in the slightest breeze.

I've been sitting here for about twenty minutes now and Trish has ignored me for every second of it. I almost wonder if she's forgotten I'm here. Whatever. I've tried calling Miles half a dozen times and get his voicemail every single time. Even my texts have gone unanswered. I know I'm risking looking like a crazy, possessive woman – especially if he's with a client – but, I really need to talk to him. Like, really need to talk to him. My courage and resolve are really starting to waver here.

And that's when I seem to finally catch a break. Trish's phone rings and she answers it, speaking in hushed tones for a brief moment before standing up and leaving. Probably off for a quickie in the copy room with one of the firm's partners or something. She seems the type to me.

But I'm left alone and completely unsupervised in the lobby. Immediately, the idea to sneak back to the offices comes to mind. A small part of my brain tells me it's about as good of an idea as say, pretending to be somebody else and living in pampered luxury for a few days. I tell that part of my brain to shut the hell up and that things seem to be working out well despite that less than auspicious beginning.

Well – unless you factor in the whole, stolen identity, pretend fiancé, and unplanned pregnancy thing.

The point is, Miles and I are doing really well. We've overcome that rough start and it feels like we’re forging something special. Something beautiful. Something I really hope I'm not about to blow up by announcing that I’m pregnant. The idea that he could reject and absolutely destroy me seems so much more terrifying – and concrete – now that I'm just a few yards from him.

It's a risk I'm going to have to take, though. There are no two ways around it. I'm going to keep this baby and Miles just needs to decide whether he wants to be a part of our lives or not. And if not, we're going to have to come to some sort of an arrangement. I can't do it on my own. Though, in all honesty, I'm not concerned about him being a deadbeat dad. Miles is a good man with a kind heart. I know he'll do the right thing by our child – I just hope he does the right thing by me as well.

“It's now or never,” I mutter to myself.

Getting to my feet, I quickly walk across the lobby. I look left and right down the corridors, looking for any sign of the Wicked Witch of Southern California. Not seeing Trish anywhere, I decide to go left – because I have to pick a direction. I have no idea of Miles' office is down this way or not. I don't know the layout of the place. All I can do is cross my fingers and hope I can find it before I get caught.

I pass by conference rooms and rows of cubicles. There is a whispered buzz of conversation, the click-clacking of keyboards, and the muted sound of phones ringing – the normal atmosphere inside an office building. I straighten up and walk normally, doing my best to blend in and make it look as if I belong here. Though, given how I'm dressed, that's probably going to be a hard sell.

I see a sign on the wall that says, “Executive Offices,” and points me down a hallway to my right. Gambling that Miles is in one of those executive offices, I quickly turn right and head down the hallway. There's a door at the end of the hall that's partially open. I hear voices, though they're a bit muffled given where I am. The sound of Miles' voice is unmistakable. He's in there talking and laughing with somebody.

Swallowing hard, I work up my nerve and head down the hallway. My ears are buzzing, and my heart is thundering so hard in my chest, I'm feeling lightheaded. There's a gold placard on the wall next to the door indicating that the next office belongs to Miles. I peek through the partial opening and see a man sitting in the chair in front of the desk. It's the same man who'd come into the bar with Miles that night – Nate, I think his name is. I think Miles said that's his partner at this firm.

When I come to my senses, I hear Miles' voice and what I hear tears my heart into a thousand tiny pieces and scatters them to the wind.

“... kids had never really been a part of my plans. I never had any use for them other than as campaign props. Truth be told, I never even wanted them for that, I –”

I choke back a sob as I push the door inward. Miles turns and sees me standing there. He's startled at first, but then smiles at me. I can't help but see the falseness in that smile. I am so stupid. What was I ever thinking getting involved with him? How could I have gone against my own instincts and trusted him?

Tears are rolling down my face as I begin to realize what a fool I've been. My heart is shattered and I want to do is get out of there and away from him.

“Sasha?” I ask. “What's wrong? Come on in.”

I turn and flee, running down the hallway and past Trish's desk – she lamely calls after me – and through the doors. Back in the hallway, I'm disoriented for a moment, then turn and run in the direction of the elevators – hoping I remembered correctly. I'm sure Miles is in hot pursuit, but I just want to get away from him. I can't bear to look at him right now. I can't bear to hear his excuses or phony bullshit.

I just need to get the hell out of here.

The doors chime softly and slide open. I jump into the car and stab the button viciously and repeatedly, trying to make them close faster. I hear Miles calling my name, so I press myself against the back wall of the elevator, clutching my bag to my chest.

I'm sobbing so hard it hurts and the adrenaline is making my body hum with an almost manic electricity. The doors start to slide closed, but then Miles is there in the alcove, looking at me in the car like I'm some kind of zoo animal.

“Sasha, hang on,” he says.

He puts his hand between the doors and they start to slide open again.

“Sasha, what's the matter? I don't –”

I'm so hurt and angry – and the bitch of it all is that I don't know why. Just hearing him speak about having kids in that derogatory, cavalier way set me off. Maybe it's the pregnancy hormones, maybe it's the fact that my dreams of raising a family together with Miles have been shattered, or maybe it's the fact that he sees me as nothing more than a campaign prop and our relationship, in all actuality, doesn't mean shit to him – I don't know.

All I know is that I'm in a rage and I feel the need to lash out.

Seeing the elevator car doors open and Miles begin to step in, a smug smirk on his face only deepens my anger, so I do the only thing I can think of in the blind rage that's gripping me. Quickly reaching into my bag, I grab the first thing my hand encounters – my trusty can of pepper spray. Yanking it out of my bag, I point and shoot. The stream of liquid splashes on his face and he immediately grabs at his eyes.

Miles stumbles backward and falls flat on his ass, clutching his face like I'd just thrown battery acid on him. His howls echo around the alcove, making it sound like the gates of hell have been opened and all of the demons are pouring out. I'm sure it won't be long before somebody comes to help him.

As the elevator doors slide closed again and the car begins to descend, a cruel smile touches my lips. I want to feel bad, but I just don't.

I want Miles to hurt just as much as he hurt me.