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I reach up to touch her arm that’s wrapped around me.
“Thanks, Chantelle. Hey, maybe I could just knock it all out together, you know? Hey, Dad, I’m in love with your best friend and I’m not going to work in finance. Two birds, one stone.” I laugh.
“Oh boy, let’s not give the man a heart attack.” She sits back down in her chair. “Don’t be afraid to be honest with people, Brontë, but more importantly, don’t be afraid to be honest with yourself. Your dad is a different person than he was a decade or two ago. That doesn’t absolve his behavior by any means and you are perfectly valid in your concerns and feelings regarding him, but if I could offer any little bit of feedback, it’s to give him a chance to prove that. Just talk to him.”
I leave our lunch feeling confident, reassured, and ready to go over to Beckham’s tonight and lay it all out.
* * *
I adjust my shirt nervously in the elevator at Beckham’s penthouse. I didn’t even bother changing out of my sleeveless black blouse and matching skirt from the office today.
Work was tense to say the least. Both of us kept our interactions to a minimum, clearly feeling like we’re walking on eggshells, unsure how to proceed or what to say after the argument in his office yesterday.
I was a little surprised that Ritchie let me up without calling Beckham first. Hopefully it doesn’t get him in any trouble, but I can’t focus on that issue very long because the elevator doors open and Beckham is standing in his foyer with another woman.
“Brontë? What are you doing here?” His face is a mix of shock and panic and that’s when the woman next to him turns around and I realize it’s Venus.
“Uh, I, uh, I’ll come back another time. I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk for a moment, but it can wait. Sorry.” I turn to leave, but Venus’ voice makes me stop in my tracks.
“It’s her, isn’t it?”
I turn back around and look at her as she looks at Beckham with a smirk on her face.
“She’s the one that you’ve been seeing? The reason you wouldn’t return my calls and texts?”
My stomach feels like a pool of acid, burning and churning inside me.
“Venus, don’t,” Beckham says, his hand curling into a fist of frustration.
“You told her?” I ask, confused, and his eyes flash to mine, then to the floor. “You told me you didn’t tell anyone about us.”
“I didn’t tell her who; I just told her that I was seeing someone.”
“When?” I ask but I already know the answer. “At that dinner?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you threw water in his face, because he’s seeing me?” I feel jealousy rear its ugly head again and the need to be territorial.
“No.” She laughs. “I did that because”—she slowly turns her head from me to look at Beckham with an almost maniacal smile on her face—“she doesn’t know, does she?”
My body starts to feel shaky. Her hands slowly come up to cup her lower belly and that’s when I see the bump. It’s small, but it’s there.
“Well,” she says with a huge smile, “since we’re all divulging secrets and you’re seeing the father of my baby, I guess you should know that I’m pregnant.”
I stand perfectly still, then for some reason, I burst into laughter.
“You’re kidding, right?”
She gives me the fakest, sympathetic smile and head shake I’ve ever seen as Beckham brings his hands up to his face.
A cool flush settles over my body as I realize that she’s serious and clearly, this isn’t brand-new information to Beckham. He knew and kept it from me.
I stumble as I try to turn around, my foot getting hooked on the other, and I almost fall before catching myself. I punch the button to call the elevator.
“Brontë, wait. She’s lying. I have no idea if that is actually my child or not. She’s refusing to take a paternity test and I swear—we never?—”
I hold up my hand to silence him, bile burning my throat as my stomach churns.
