Semua Bab Revenge On My Ex, Accidentally In Bed With A Billionaire : Bab 11 - Bab 20

PASHA“I still can’t believe you burned the damn thing.”I shrug and take another sip of my lemon water. “Felt fantastic. You should try it sometime.”Senator Brennan chuckles. “That would be a dream come true. I’ll never understand what my wife sees in that artist… what’s his name…”“Ewing.”“Ewing.” He drawls it out over his tongue with a twisted look on his face, as if the name tastes terrible. To be fair, I don’t relish it, either. “Conrad Ewing, that’s right. I swear, I’m seeing his work everywhere these days. Senator Gerhardt even has one in his office; can you believe it?”As much as I hate it, I can believe it. Nepotism is a hell of a resource for talentless hacks like Ewing.Sidney Conrad Ewing is a third-rate barely-graduate of Yale’s art program who wouldn’t have even been admitted were it not for a generous donation bestowed upon the university by the wealthy Mr. and Mrs. Ewing.I know more about the bastard than I care to. It wasn’t hard to pull the records and follow the

PASHAI can count on zero fingers how often in my life I’ve chased down a woman.First time for everything, I suppose.Maybe that’s why I feel a rush of adrenaline instead of irritation as I rush after Daphne, not giving a fuck who I bump into or offend on my way.I finally catch her elbow through the double doors. “Stop.”She turns, flustered and out of breath. “I-I have t-to go, sorry! I have to—” Her voice dies when she tries to tear out of my grasp and her bag slips off her shoulder and upends. We both reach for it at the same time and the jostling knocks a smaller bag out of it.“Here, let me get that?—”“No!”I bend down to pick up the baggie, intending to just give it back to her. But when I see what it’s holding, I freeze.I look at it.At her.At it.At her.Say something. You need to say something.But what the fuck am I supposed to say?“Congratulations”?“Who’s the father”?“Are we having a boy or girl”?Oh, fucking hell.The valet pulls my car up right behind where Daphne

PASHABlyat’.I need another drink.The bottle of vodka hasn’t left my side for the better part of an hour, which is how long I’ve been staring at the laptop screen. Trying to process this email.Trying to process the fact that I, Pasha Mikhail Anatoly Chekov, am about to become a father.Sofiya’s sing-song voice rings in my ears. “Is that a problem…? Or a blessing?”I chug more vodka down and pray the screen will start swimming enough for all the information to blur together until it makes sense.Because as it stands now, none of this makes sense.I had everything meticulously planned out. Makari was supposed to be the family continuer. He should have been the one to go to the gallery and flirt with the attendants and?—No. Can’t think about that what if. Even though he’s my little brother, the mental image of him being the one to sweep Daphne off her feet and into that storage closet makes my stomach churn.So does this mean I have no regrets?Maybe one: ever letting Daphne out of m

I blink at him until the waiter leaves. Then: “Are you insane? We can’t eat all that food!”Pasha simply shrugs. “We’ll box up whatever’s left. It won’t go to waste. Besides, you deserve to have what you want.”“I want a salad.”“No, you want to make your mother happy and maintain some demented idea of what your figure is supposed to look like.”“I… don’t have a rebuttal to that.”He smiles at me and nudges the basket of buttery breadsticks toward me. “Eat up. Live a little. Fuck your figure. I did, and now, you don’t have to worry about it.”“I’m not taking that bait, Mister.” I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m also perfectly capable of deciding what I should and should not eat.”“I’m sure you are. But are you capable of shutting off all the nagging voices in your head and allowing yourself to do whatever the fuck you want?”“What’s it to you?” I hate that he seems to know more about me than I’ve let on. I hate that he’s right—I’m constantly eyeing the good stuff while forcing myself to e

The tone of his voice brooks no argument. He’s not raising his voice or expressing any anger, but the muscle in his jaw is ticking and I think—I think—I’m actually starting to irritate him. “With respect,” I offer, “I am grateful to you for your generosity. And your willingness to be part of my baby’s life. However?—” “Our baby.” “Yes. Well. I have no desire to become a kept woman. I sure as shit have no desire to bow to some archaic, misogynistic notion of being barefoot and pregnant while the father of my children goes out and does… whatever the hell it is you do.” “Weapons dealing, mostly.” “Weapons dealing. Fantastic. Truly the stuff role models are made of.” I tap my finger on the table the same time my leg starts shaking; it’s a nervous tic I developed after a certain traumatic event occurred to make me hate guns with every fiber of my being. “So tell me, Pasha, what exactly are your plans for our child? Raise them up to be your… what? Heir? Prince-in-waiting? Take over the