Page 212 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

I grabbed my keys off the kitchen counter and headed for the door, my side protesting with every step. The pain was manageable. Tolerable.

Nothing compared to the need driving me forward.

I had to see her.

I had to explain.

I had to make her understand that everything I felt for her was real. That the baby—ourbaby—mattered more to me than anything else in this fucked-up world.

The drive to Mimosa Ct. was a blur of anxiety and anticipation. I plugged the address into my GPS and followed the robotic voice’s directions through the city, my mind spinning with everything I needed to say.

I didn’t know about the sperm swap initially. I swear I didn’t.

But when I found out—when I realized there was a chance that baby was mine—I had to know you.

I had to be close to you.

Everything I feel for you is real.

The words sounded hollow even in my own head. Rehearsed. Desperate.

Because how do you explain to someone that you pursued them under false pretenses, but your feelings are genuine? How do you make them understand that the foundation was built on lies but the structure is real?

You can’t.

Not really.

All you can do is tell the truth and hope they believe you.

The GPS announced that I’d arrived at my destination, and I pulled up to the curb in front of a modest brick two-story. It had a small front porch, a fenced backyard visible from the street, and a potted plant beside the front door.

It was perfect.

Simple. Clean. Hers.

I killed the engine and sat there for a moment, my hands gripping the steering wheel, my heart pounding.

This was it.

This was the moment when everything either fell apart or came together.

I thought about the baby. About the life growing inside her. About the possibility—thecertainty—that it was mine.

I’d spent a night in that concrete hole thinking about it. Imagining it. A son or a daughter with Truth’s eyes and my smile. A child who would grow up knowing they were wanted. Loved. Protected.

A child who would never feel like a disappointment.

A child who would never have to prove their worth to a father who saw them as a failure.

I would be better than Winston.

I would be better than the man who’d raised me to believe I was worthless unless I was useful.

I would be a real father.

But first, I had to face Truth.

I had to walk into her anger and hurt, her justified rage, and tell her the truth.