Two months after spending the night with Connor Mennetti, my worst fears are confirmed.
Looking down at the positive pregnancy test in my hand, I feel sick to my stomach. Actually, that’s the whole reason I finally caved and went out and bought a pregnancy test.
For the last couple of weeks, I haven’t felt well. It’s been on and off and, at first, I chalked it up to stress and thought I might be coming down with the flu or something equally nasty.
When the proofs from the engagement photos arrived, I started looking through them and after less than a minute, I jumped up, ran into the bathroom and puked.
I attributed it to the fact that marrying Antonio Dombruso makes me physically ill.
But now I know it’s so much more than that. I just don’t understand.
Slumping forward, leaning a hip against the bathroom counter, I think back to that night. Connor used a condom and I assumed I’d be protected.
So what the hell happened?
I toss the evidence of my pregnancy in the trash and wander back into my bedroom feeling utterly lost. Dropping down on the bed, I lay on my back and stare up at the ceiling, my mind going over the details of that night two months earlier.
Truthfully, I think about Connor and our night together constantly. Even when I don’t want to, I can’t shut my thoughts off of him and how wonderful our time together was. It haunts me and, at the same time, makes me yearn for more.
But that’s impossible. Connor Mennetti hates my family and thank God, he has no idea who I am. I’m merely a mystery woman who slipped out of his bed during the middle of the night. I’m sure it wasn’t the first one-night stand he’s had and I’m sure it won’t be the last.
In fact, he’s probably forgotten all about me.
For whatever reason, it hurts my heart to think he may have forgotten because, for me, that night lives in more than just my memory. It lives in my very heart and soul. Like it’s been imprinted or permanently etched there. It was unforgettable in every way. I think men can move on easier after sex, though. And, being a virgin, they say you never forget your first.
Well, I’ll definitely never forget Connor.
But it’s so much more than that. I remember every little detail from the curve of his smile to the way his blue eyes darkened with desire. I can still feel his soft, cool sheets beneath my back and the warmth of his arms when he held me. And then there’s the gentle way he eased me into it – with kisses that started tender then turned more passionate and demanding. The moment our bodies connected is seared into my brain forever, never to be erased.
And now I’m pregnant with his baby.
“Dio mio,” I murmur.
This isn’t good. First of all, it’s insane that out of all the men I could’ve chosen to hook up with, I pick my family’s mortal enemy.
It’s mind-boggling. But the crazier part is how well we got along and the fact that I would’ve loved to have seen him again.
But I assumed the protocol for a one-night stand was to go your separate ways. End all contact.
Now I’m wondering if maybe I was wrong. What if I would’ve stayed the entire night and woken up in his arms? Would he have kicked me out with some lame excuse? Or would he have asked me for my number and out on a date?
These are the questions that have been keeping me up at night.
Tormenting me relentlessly. Now, though, I have a much bigger problem to deal with.
I am pregnant with Connor Mennetti’s baby. Holy shit. The repercussions of that are simply enormous and overwhelming. I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around it and I suppose there’s always the small possibility that the test is wrong.
Not wanting to stress out and worry until I know it’s true, like absolutely, positively a fact, I calm my breathing down, grab my phone and call my doctor to schedule an appointment.
Who knows? Maybe this will all go away.
Two days later., I find out that nothing is going to go away, and I am eight weeks pregnant. After the doctor leaves, I get dressed and it’s like I’m in a daze. What am I going to do? I’m engaged to one man and pregnant with another’s baby. This is like a bad soap opera.
Okay, option number one would eliminate my problem immediately. But the thought of ending this tiny life growing inside of my body makes me ill.
It’s not the baby’s fault. Hell, I’m still not sure how it happened and I even asked my doctor. She said even if it didn’t break – and I’m pretty sure it didn’t – condoms are still only 98 percent effective and, in any given year, approximately 15 out of every 100 people who rely on condoms as their only birth control get pregnant.
Well, that was sure news to me. I mean, what the hell?
Again, though, how would I know that? Up until two months ago, I’d been a virgin.
Option number two is something that hits me as I walk out of the doctor’s office and wait for my Uber driver to arrive. I had to sneak out again, especially since my dad has demanded that I take a bodyguard whenever I need to leave the brownstone. Yeah, right. I appreciate his concern, but I’m hardly going to be dragging a big, burly guard down to the drugstore for a pregnancy test or here to my doctor’s appointment at the OBGYN.
So, back to my second possible plan. As difficult as it would be, I could move up the wedding to Antonio and let everyone believe the baby is his. But that would mean telling Antonio and I have no idea how he’d respond. I don’t think he’d be too happy about the situation and he could potentially call the entire wedding off. A part of me would be relieved.
Hmm, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad after all. My family would probably disown me, but I could move out and live on my own. I’d have to get a job to support myself and the baby. And find childcare when I’m working all day. My heart sinks. Although I went to fancy boarding schools my entire life, my education was more general than specific. I’m not trained to do anything except hold polite conversation and basically be a trophy wife. I’ve also never held a real job which puts me at the bottom of the candidate pool.
Which brings me right back around to Antonio. Because the last thing I could ever do is let Connor find out. Ever since he declared war on my family, my father has upped security, but the enforcers are out there fighting constantly.
A few have even died by the Mennetti gang.
If Connor Mennetti discovered the truth, there’s no telling what he might do. My biggest fear is he would take the baby away from me or, God forbid, hurt the child to punish my family. All because I possess the wrong last name. If you think about it, it’s ridiculous that this rivalry is still going on after so many years.
Granted, I don’t even know half of what goes on in my family’s businesses, but isn’t there a way we could all work together? Or, at the very least, come to a truce that satisfies both parties? Why does there have to be fighting and murders?
I hate it. And that also makes me angry at the people who perpetuate it. People like my father and his enforcers. I’m still not sure who gunned Nolan Mennetti down and I feel awful. The last I heard, he slipped into a coma and Connor is running the Mennetti empire.
After directing the Uber driver to drop me off a block away from our family brownstone, I slip out and start walking up the sidewalk on the opposite side of our block.
Then I cross the street and, after a quick look around, I climb up the fire escape and sneak back into my room.
It occurs to me that I’m 24-years-old and sneaking in and out like I’m a 15-year-old kid or something. So pathetic. If I don’t, though, I’m practically a prisoner.
I’m barely through my window when there’s a sharp knock on the door and I jump a mile, startled. “Shit,” I whisper and lower my window quickly.
Smoothing my clothes and running a hand through my windblown hair, I walk across my bedroom, unlock the door and open it. My dad stands there looking as intimidating as ever.
“Trish, I’m going to need you to accompany me to a charity event tonight,” he states.
Of course, he doesn’t ask if I’d like to go; he just demands that I do.
“A charity event?” I stifle a groan. “Why isn’t mom going?”
“Your mother isn’t feeling well and said she’s going to bed early. I assume you have something to wear?”
“Maybe I have plans tonight,” I say, trying to think quickly how to get out of this situation. It’s going to be mind-numbingly boring and I don’t want to hang out with my father tonight.
“Do you?”
I can’t think of a lie fast enough so I cave in. “No.”
“Good. Then we’ll leave here at 6 PM. Make sure you’re downstairs and ready to go.”
“Yes, papa,” I respond like I always do.
His gaze sweeps over me and he frowns. “Are you going out?”
“Um, maybe,” I stutter and look down, realizing I have my shoes on and I’m still clutching my purse.
“Take a guard if you do,” he orders.
“Okay.”