Chapter 6

Damien's point of view

Louisa was pregnant.

A woman I barely knew was pregnant with my child.

I fell onto the living room couch — the one you used to love sleeping on. My sigh felt like it would shake my entire core.

Louisa was moving into my house today. My driver had gone to pick her up, and I was here to "welcome" her in.

I swear I saw you staring at me. Disappointed? Upset? Betrayed?

I never thought I would be having another— a child. I had come to terms with the death of that dream. That life.

But now…

Was I excited? I was going to be a father, do I get to be excited?

What do I do after the child is born? How do I raise a child without fucking him up?

What if he ends up like me? Becomes an extension of me?

The sound of cars rolling in drew me out of my thoughts. Louisa was here.

A frown deepened on my face. The vans that had gone for her belongings were empty.

She stepped out of the passenger seat of the first car, wearing a black mesh two-piece, different from the corporate gown she'd worn to the interview. She looked a bit more rested, her eye bags less swollen, though still needing work.

In all transparency, she didn't look bad. In fact, she was pleasing to the eyes. Her body was more defined in this outfit — nice curves and proportions, though too thin and frail for them to stand out the way they should have.

Her face was like a canvas designed with unique features that somehow fit perfectly together. The only problem was that the canvas was damaged — patches of acne clung to different parts of her skin, distorting what should have been flawless.

Would our— my child suffer the same?

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she said, eyeing me, taking me in properly for the first time since we'd met. I felt the need to stand straighter.

"Why are the move-in vans empty?"

She rolled her eyes. "Because I have nothing to pack. Plus, it's not like I'm moving in permanently."

I had questions, but it wasn't my business to ask. "I wouldn't be paying rent on your other place." She scoffed.

"Such generosity." She shoved past me and walked in.

We'd gotten the test results late last night. It was confirmed — she was carrying my child.

I followed behind her, slightly vexed. "Since you remember you're not moving in permanently, also remember it's not your damn house. Don't act like it is."

I never even asked her to come in.

I watched her from behind as she surveyed the room.

She fit in properly—

She was so out of place.

Only one woman would ever fit properly in this house.

"Don't worry. I wouldn't dream of it." What nonsense was she spewing now?

"Your room is on this floor, at the right end, near the kitchen and everything else you'll need while you're here. I wouldn't want a heavily pregnant woman running up the stairs."

"Aw. So thoughtful. I'm so moved, I could repay you with my firstborn."

Touché.

"I'm sure you would."

I'm not sure what it says of her? Giving away her child for money? What sort of mother did that?

I shouldn't be one to judge. I had done worse but I know you wouldn't have done that. No, you'd do anything for your child. You'd have done anything.

She dropped onto the I'd just stood up from. My eyes nearly popped out of my head.

"Don't—"

"Don't what?" She looked up at me.

"Nothing." I took a step back.

Of course my pregnant surrogate houseguest would sit on the damn couch. Where else was she supposed to sit?

"You're weird." You don't even know.

"You're feeling bold now," I said, referring to the one-word answers we'd traded at our last face-to-face conversation.

"Well, I'm carrying the child you desperately need. You're kind of at my mercy."

I knew she was a bitch.

"Don't forget I could always have the pregnancy terminated and replace you." I wouldn't. But she didn't have to know that.

"I have a feeling you won't do that."

Bitch. Bitch. Bitch.

"Don't count on it." I turned away — I'd seen enough of her face for one day. "You can go anywhere you want, but the upper level is off-limits. There's nothing up there you'll need, so stay off. I don't ever want to see you climbing those stairs."

"Sheesh. One would think you're hiding a dead body up there." She didn't take me seriously.

"I'm serious, Louisa. Don't go upstairs." Downstairs here was the kitchen, bath, pool, gym, studio, anything she could want or need.

Something flashed in her eyes — a bit of defiance, and an emotion I couldn't quite place — before she nodded in understanding.

"Yes, boss." She said it with a mock salute.

“Don't go about touching things nor changing the positions of things.”

“You have OCD?” She quirked her eyebrow.

“Just do as I say, okay?” She sighed, nodding as she fell deeper into the couch. Getting comfortable. Too comfortable.

"And Louisa. I'm the one paying you. Mind how you speak to me. There's only so much disrespect I can tolerate."

I didn't wait for an answer, and I didn't think she was going to offer one anyway.

It was going to be a long nine months.