Chapter 6

Bridgett

The limousine was silent, but it was a loud kind of silence. The kind that screams.

I sat on the plush leather seat, clutching my purse, my knees pressed together. Across from me, Jordan sat like a statue carved from granite. He hadn't looked at me since we left the office.

Theo and Abby were asleep, exhausted by the emotional rollercoaster of the afternoon. But Belle was awake. She sat next to Jordan, swinging her legs, her eyes fixed on his expensive watch.

"Where are we going?" I whispered, breaking the oppressive quiet. "This isn't the way to my apartment."

Jordan didn't blink. "We aren't going to your apartment. Not yet."

The car slowed to a halt in front of a sleek, modern building. Hayes Private Medical Center.

My stomach dropped. "A hospital?”

"A paternity test," Jordan said, his voice flat. "Expedited. I want it on paper before the sun sets."

"You know they're yours," I snapped, my protective instinct flaring. "You smelled them. You said so."

Jordan turned his head slowly. The gold in his eyes was dim, replaced by a cold, calculating blue. "I know. My wolf knows. But the law requires proof. And if I am going to take you to court, Bridgett, I need undeniable proof."

Court.

The word hung in the air like a guillotine blade.

(***)

The clinic was more like a five-star hotel than a medical facility. We were ushered into a private VIP suite. No waiting lines. No forms to fill out. Just terrified silence.

The nurse, a kind woman who looked nervous around Jordan, swabbed the children’s cheeks. They didn't cry. They were too confused to cry.

"Results in twenty minutes, Mr. Hayes," the doctor promised, bowing slightly before rushing out.

We were left alone again.

I sat on the edge of the sofa, watching Jordan. He was pacing by the window, his back rigid. He looked like a man holding back a tidal wave.

Belle slid off the sofa.

"Belle, come back here," I whispered.

She ignored me. She walked over to the giant, brooding man by the window. She tugged on the fabric of his tailored trousers.

Jordan froze. He looked down.

Belle reached into the pocket of her faded, second-hand jeans. She pulled out a small, slightly lint-covered butterscotch candy. It was the cheap kind Mrs. Higgins gave them for being good.

"For you," she whispered, holding it up. "You look sad."

I stopped breathing.

Jordan stared at the candy. Then he looked at Belle’s small hand. Then, his gaze traveled down to her shoes.

They were pink sneakers I had bought at a thrift store. The velcro was worn out, and the sole of the left shoe was peeling away. I had tried to glue it back together yesterday, but the glue hadn't held.

Jordan’s jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek.

Slowly, he crouched down until he was eye-level with her. He took the sticky candy from her hand as if it were a diamond.

"Thank you, little one," he murmured. His voice was thick with emotion.

"It's sticky," Belle warned him seriously.

"I don't mind."

He looked at her shoes again, and then he looked at me. The sadness vanished, replaced by a cold, white-hot fury.

He stood up and crossed the room in two strides, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the corner, away from the kids' hearing.

"Why are her shoes taped together?" he hissed.

I flinched. "What?"

"My daughter," he snarled, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "She is walking around in shoes that are falling apart. Why?"

"Because that’s all I can afford!" I hissed back, tears stinging my eyes. "I work two jobs, Jordan! I pay for daycare, rent, food. Shoes are a luxury we can't always have."

"I am worth billions," he said, shaking his head as if he couldn't comprehend the concept of poverty. "My children should have the world at their feet"

"Well, you weren't there!"

"Because you hid them!"

The door opened. The doctor walked in, holding a manila envelope. The tension in the room snapped.

Jordan let go of my arm. He walked over to the doctor, took the envelope, and ripped it open.

He scanned the paper. One second. Two seconds.

He didn't look surprised. He just nodded, a grim satisfaction settling over his features. He tossed the paper onto the glass coffee table.

PROBABILITY OF PATERNITY: 99%

Jordan turned to me. The predator was back. There was no more negotiation. No more job interviews.

"Wake them up," he commanded.

"Where are we going?" I asked, trembling.

"My estate," he said.

"No," I shook my head, backing away. "I can't just go to your house. I have a lease. I have a life. We can work out a visitation schedule, but—"

Jordan laughed. It was a dark, humorless sound.

He stepped into my space, consuming me, his scent wrapping around me like chains.

"You misunderstand the situation, Bridgett. Look at that paper. Those children are Hayes heirs now."

“I knew you would do this to me. If you take them from me, you’ll destroy me.”

“You took them from me in the first place.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear.

"You have two choices. You can pack your things and move into my mansion tonight, where my children will never wear taped shoes again..."

He pulled back, his eyes flashing gold.

"...Or I can take that piece of paper to a judge, prove you are financially unstable, and take full custody by morning. You will never see them again."

I gasped, horror flooding my veins.

"Choose," he whispered. "But know this: you are not leaving my sight again.”