I clamp a trembling hand over my mouth as Dillon stares at Easton. His intense penetrative gaze is one I’m familiar with, and I don’t like how it’s fixed on my son. I want to move, to take Easton out of the room, but shock has rendered me immobile. I can’t speak over the horror of this moment. Where the fuck is Angela? I’m going to string her up for letting E out of her sight.
“This is your Uncle Dillon,” Reeve says when Dillon doesn’t reply.
“Cool! Is he coming to my birthday party tomorrow?” Easton innocently asks, and I feel the ground opening underneath me.
“Tomorrow?” Dillon says, finally finding his voice. It sounds off, and goose bumps sprout along my arms. “I thought your birthday was in June?”
67
Oh fuck! He already suspects, and now he knows. Panic whirls through my veins, and it’s a miracle I don’t puke on the spot.
Reeve chuckles. “The media thinks it’s June because we manipulated them into believing that, but he was actually born five weeks earlier.”
I can almost see the cogs churning in Dillon’s brain as he calculates the dates. “Why would you do that?” he asks, sounding and looking dazed.
Intense pressure sits on my chest, and I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I can only sit and watch it unfold in complete and utter shock.
“We’ve had issues with the paparazzi in the past,” Reeve says. “The last thing we want is them hounding us every year on Easton’s birthday. This way, we get to celebrate without them breathing down our necks. Win-win.”
Dillon stares at me, genuine shock splayed across his face, and I can’t take this a second longer. I stumble to my feet. “I don’t feel so hot,” I tell Reeve. “I need the bathroom.” I don’t wait for him to reply, rushing out of the room.
I barely make it to the nearest bathroom in time. Crouching over the toilet bowl, I vomit repeatedly while tears stream down my face. I retch until there is nothing left in my stomach, and it mirrors the pained hollowness I feel everywhere. I flush the toilet and slump against the wall, running my hands back and forth across my swollen belly, struggling to understand how my life could be so perfect one second and then everything falls to shit the next.
None of the heartbreak I’ve endured in the past comes close to how I’m feeling right now. I stand to lose everything, and I’m beyond terrified. Fresh panic slaps me in the face, and I clamber to my feet. I shouldn’t have left the room! What if Dillon has said something to Reeve?
I rinse out my mouth and wash my hands. I’m drying them on the towel when the door opens, and Dillon slips silently into the room.
My heart thrashes frantically around my chest. “You can’t be in here!” I shriek.
“We need to talk,” he says in a clipped tone. His lips pull into a half-sneer as he flips the lock on the door. “Don’t worry about your precious husband. He’s upstairs getting cleaned up. Easton threw up over both of them, and I said I’d come to check on you.”
“Oh my God. Is Easton okay?”
“He probably ate too many cookies though Reeve thinks he might have the same tummy bug you have.” He barks out a harsh laugh. “Except we both know why you’re feeling sick.”
“Why are you here?” I cross my arms over my chest, as if that will ward off the trembling stealing over my body.
“I came to meet my twin.”
“Why? And quit with the bullshit, Dil.” His scathing tone tells me all I need to know. Whatever that was in the living room was all an act.
“Ah, there she is.” He walks toward me, and I back away. “My fiery little ballbuster. I was beginning to wonder if Reeve had knocked all the life out of you.”
I thrust out my hand. “Stay away from me.”
He laughs, twirling his finger around a lock of my hair as he crowds me against the wall. Or he tries to. It’s a little difficult to do with my pregnant belly in the way. Dillon looks down, and tension bleeds into the air. I rub a protective hand over my stomach, feeling a need to shield my unborn daughter from whatever vitriol this man is about to spill. Slowly, he raises his head, pinning me with ocean-blue eyes I still can’t get over. “Is this one Reeve’s, or is there a possibility it’s another man’s too?”
“Fuck you!” I slap him across the face. “I’m faithful to my husband.”
He smirks that annoying smirk I used to love to hate. Leaning in, he presses his mouth to my ear. “But is he faithful to you? That’s the million-dollar question.”