Five.

That's how many weeks it's been since I first fucked Mason in the bathroom of the bar. Before I knew who exactly he was. Before we began to spend more and more time together. Before I realized his connection to Lorna. Before I realized a lot of things. I used to think I was so grown up. But I realize now just how naive I was. It feels like in those five weeks since I've met Mason, I've crossed a bridge that can never be crossed, you know? Like I've matured much faster than any 21 year old should have to.

Seven.

That's how many days ago I finally moved the last of my things out of the townhouse that Lorna lives in.

Mason helped me of course. "Mom" wasn't around to even see me go. Mason didn't know where she was either. Only later did I find out from our housekeeper—who cried all day as I was moving out—that Lorna had gone to the Hamptons with another Kane Price shareholder.

Of course, you know what she did there?

I don't have to have a very vivid imagination to say that she went out there to seduce him. I'm not being a bitch if I say that. She pretty much told me this herself a few days after I overheard her tell Mason that she wasn't my mother.

That's right, babe. I totally confronted her. I remember. It was a Saturday morning and she was reading the newspaper on her tablet in the sunroom.

"Why do you look so shocked, Becca?" she asked me when I asked her if it was really true. "You got a good deal out of it, didn't you?"

"But that's not the point, Mom," I said, instinctively falling back on the moniker.

"Please, will you fucking stop calling me your mother," Lorna said with obvious disdain. "I could give two shits whether you live or die, to be honest. You're only as good to me as you photograph, if you must know."

I think I gasped or something, you know? Just hearing those words coming from the woman I thought had loved me my whole life.

"Oh, don't look so shocked," she said to me. "You're nothing like me. You're weak, soft, and stupid. You don't have the killer instinct."

"Is that why you didn't like Dad?" I asked her. "Because he didn't have the killer instinct?"

Lorna's face turned into a grimace. "I wish he'd never brought you into the marriage we had," she sneered. "If he'd just thrown you out on the corner, maybe he'd still be alive. I wanted him, not you. But when you came along with him, it sort of ruined the experience for me, you know?"

I remember shaking with fear and shock and loathing. How could one person be so cavalier about the dead? So hating toward the living.

"I cheated on your father every chance I got," she said, smiling as if relishing the fact that she was hurting me. "I made sure he found out about it each and every time. I fucked guys on our bed. I left panties soaked in other men's cum for him to find and see."

She went on and on. A litany of betrayals as I sat in horror.

"And then," she said, without a shade of remorse. "When he couldn't take it anymore, he took his own life."

I couldn't believe it. She laughed at me and said the final piece that made me realize I had to leave. "Just the way I'd planned it."

There was something very psychotically wrong with Lorna Lowell. And I needed to get away as quickly as possible.

Two.

That's how many weeks ago Lorna finally cut me off from everything. I was removed from her will. I lost my bank accounts. Even my cell phone contract was cancelled. I mean, she paid the penalty for early termination just to cut my phone bill and show me who was boss.

I knew what she was trying to do.

She was trying to assert her dominance over me. Trying to get me to realize that I had to come crawling back to her.

Don't worry. That's something that I'll never do.

Luckily, I still had a decently paying job as a Wall Street intern. Annualized, I made about $60,000 a year so I was able to open a bank account on the same day. I basically had the clothes on my back and the cash in my pocket, but with the help of a few friends, I was able to get by till payday. That's when I began saving my money and couch surfing till I finally found a one-bedroom walkup on the Lower East Side that I was able to move into.

"You should just stay with me," Mason immediately offered. But I knew that I didn't want to put him in that situation. I want him to have me over at his place because he wants to. Not because he thinks he's doing me a favor.

Six.

That's how many days out of the seven that I've had my new apartment that I've spent the night at Mason's place in One57. That's right, babe. I moved into a new apartment and my first week I only spent one night.

I mean, it's a pretty different world from what I was accustomed to. It's a walk up. No doorman. No elevator.

The view is of a brick wall. The faucet in the bathroom leaks. It's about the size of Mason's walk-in closet. It's definitely for people who are either starving artists or holdovers from the days of rent control. Nevertheless, I didn't mind staying there.

But there was one thing the apartment, with all it's independence from Lorna, couldn't give me that Mason could.

Sex.

Three.

That's how many times a day Mason and I have sex when I'm able to have sex. Seriously, who would think that he was in his late thirties by the way he fucks. He's like a pile driver powered by some sort of Energizer battery. But whereas the bunny would tire out and nap, Mason just keeps going and is ready for more at the drop of a hat, or the bending of a waist.

Ever since the fist night in his apartment where I began to go all out and call him Daddy, I haven't gotten it out of my head. I love pretending he's my stepdad. I mean, technically, I suppose he was, even though at 21 I'm fully emancipated from a woman who bears no familial relation to me.

But it gets me so wet. I can't even begin to describe how filthy I feel when I think about him spanking me as I beg him to smack my ass harder. I moan out "Daddy, don't stop" as he puts his massive cock inside of me. I groan "Daddy, cum all over my face" right before he sprays a quart of cum all over me. And then I lick it up and swap it with him.

Just thinking about him right now has my panties drenched. You remember how Mason told you back in the first chapter to take off your panties before diving into the book? I wish someone had told me to stop buying thongs before I met Mason. Because what's the point?

I mean, for someone on a budget, it's more cost effective for me to go commando. Saves on laundry costs.

But I want to make one thing clear though.

It's not just about the sex.

I think I'm falling in love with him.

One.

That's how many months I've been debating in my head whether I'm really falling in love with the bad boy of Wall Street. I mean this guy used to be a player. Yeah, I told you I know all about his MO. I've read everything about him and that Stacy Sawyer chick on Market Pulse and how they fucked.

But he really does care for me.

Not just because he takes care of me when Lorna cut me off. But just spending time with me.

Take the other day, for example.

I wanted to go to Kittichai, the Thai place on the West Side.

"That place is overrated," Mason said to me when I broached the subject.

"But their chicken curry is so good!" I whined. He looked at me and I pouted. "After everything that's been going on, I could use something like Thai food to pick me up."

It was true. Sharing a meal was a way to forget about the impending vote of no confidence, the power that Mom was amassing in the Firm, or the fact that I was caught in the center of it.

Also, I knew he couldn't resist that pout.

So I was a little surprised when he said nothing more and headed to work.

I followed an hour later and all day it was business as usual, both sides of Kane Price desperately trying to make or break the Red Lion Aviation deal.

Around 6 pm, Mason came by my desk.

"Are you ready to go?" he asked me.

I looked at him with a stupid stare.

"The car's waiting to take us to Kittichai," he said.

It's not just the fact that Mason Kane had actually planned and gotten us into one of the hottest restaurants in New York City with a reservation list of at least a month.

It's that he was standing at my desk, telling me that the car was waiting.

That he was acknowledging me in full view of the people on my floor.

That he held out his arm as I got up and we walked out, arm in arm.

That he opened the door for me to the car, and before I got in, stopped me.

I could tell the words going through his brain.

But how is the Bad Boy of Wall Street supposed to tell a girl that he loves her?

Instead, he did the next best thing.

"I will do anything for you, Becca Lowell," he said. "I promise."

Not as good as I love you, I know, but still, enough to make you feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

Five.

That's how many hours ago I got back from the Duane Reade and desperately pulled out the pregnancy test kit and went to the bathroom and peed onto it.

I mean, the results the first time made me do it again.

And from then till now, I'm starting to wrestle with a nagging question in my head.

How am I going to tell Mason that in the middle of fighting for his company, being stuck in a forced marriage to a woman who is evil enough to pretend for 21 years that she was my mother, and being skewered in the media, am I going to tell him that I've just found out I'm pregnant.

I mean, this should be a happy time for us.

I'm not so sure that I'll do anything more than add yet another burden to him.

If dating me doesn't do it, will this baby inside of me be the straw that finally breaks the camel's back?