22
“When was your last checkup?” the woman in scrubs asked as Lora shifted on the examination table and took a breath.
“You mean like a regular medical checkup? Or—”
The woman glanced at the form Lora had filled out in the waiting area of Planned Parenthood and then looked up. “Either. You had a child six months ago. So you should have had a post-delivery checkup recently. And you’re pregnant, so you should have—”
“OK, look, can we just get this done,” Lora said. “I thought the whole point of Planned Parenthood was that you don’t ask any questions and don’t pressure us!”
The woman turned bright red, concern flashing across her face as she looked toward the door like she was hoping someone else would come in and take over. She was young, with nine zits and not a wrinkle in sight.
Immediately Lora realized the pressure was coming from inside, from her own conflict. This poor girl had done nothing but ask perfectly reasonable, routine questions. Oh, God, was she doing the right thing?! Was it right to do this without telling the Sheikh? Was it right to do it at all?! Oh, God, she should just tell him, shouldn’t she?
But then what? What if he wanted nothing to do with her? What if he wanted everything to do with her? What if he suspected she’d gotten knocked up to trap him? What if he confirmed what she feared most of all: That she was just a whore looking for a payout?
Because that’s what you are, came the whisper from her overactive conscience. How dare you fantasize about living in a Palace, surrounded by attendants, breastfeeding two children from two different men, living a life of leisure and luxury! Gold-digger! Harlot! You haven’t earned that life, and so don’t you dare reach for it or you’ll pay the price! Maybe something horrible will happen to one of your children! Maybe something horrible will happen to you, or to Amir! And speaking of Amir, what makes you think he wants anything more from you than what he got that night? You couldn’t even keep a man like Mark interested for more than three years, could ya? Why the hell would a rich, handsome, billionaire Sheikh who’s got European Barbie-doll princesses spreading their legs for him want to keep coming home to you?! You’re used up. Spent. If you tell him about his child, maybe you get another child-support check every month. Whoop-de-doo! Two checks from two baby-daddies! What a princess you’ve turned out to be!
But what if he does find out about this, Lora thought as she watched the girl in scrubs mumble something about the doctor being on her way and leave the room. What if he finds out next month, next year, ten years from now? What if . . .
“OK stop!” she said aloud in the empty room. “You’ve gone over all this a hundred times. You haven’t answered Carmen’s calls and texts in a month, and she doesn’t know you’re pregnant for sure. She can have her theories, but she can’t know for sure unless I tell her. And since I haven’t told her, no one knows. I can get this done and it’ll be like it never happened. I can stop driving myself insane and move on with my life. Amir is certainly moving on with his, isn’t he?”
She thought back to the news articles she’d read about the rumors of Amir and Marissa getting back together. It made sense, she thought. A king should marry a real princess—not a delusional divorcee who dreams of being a princess. The decision is made, she told herself. It’s done. My decision, and his. Even if he knew, he’d probably be glad she was taking care of things quietly and not causing any drama for him and his new queen-to-be.
Lora had almost calmed herself down when she heard a sound at the window behind her. She was on the ground floor of the building, and she ignored it at first, thinking it must be someone parking a car outside or whatever. But the sound came again, and finally she turned and almost fell off the examination table when she saw two dark, burly men with beards climbing through the window like it was perfectly normal behavior at Planned Parenthood.
She opened her mouth to scream, but the bigger man grabbed her and clamped his massive paw over her nose and mouth. She bit down, feeling his flesh break between her teeth as he grunted in pain, his grip loosening but not enough for her to scream.
“Please do not resist, Miss Langhorne. It is not what you think,” he whispered, his accent heavy with a Middle-Eastern lilt. “Sheikh Amir has sent us. He would like to provide some input before you make this decision.”