Page 19 of Sinful Blaze

Oh, wait—that was him who did all that to me.

And honestly, whenever I think about everything that happened afterwards, it’s still not even remotely close to my fault. It’s not my fault I got swept off my feet by some hot Russian bajillionaire who looked like sin and tasted like chaos.

That was all… ahem… what was I saying?

Focus, Daph.

“Honestly, Mom, I don’t think Conrad will want me back. At all. Ever.”

She frowns. Mostly because she hates being called “Mom,” especially in public (because it’s so uncouth for our “social echelon,” or some bullshit like that). But also because she can’t envision a world in which her carefully manipulated plans don’t work in her favor.

Like Sidney Conrad Ewing wanting me for his bride.

“Why not? You come from good breeding, high status, exceptional education. Sure, you had a little tiff. All lovers do. He?—”

“I’m pregnant.”

Mother freezes mid-sip. I decide the radish on the edge of my plate is fascinating and opt to stare at that rather than see her veins literally ice over.

“What. Did. You. Just. Say?”

I clear my throat and try to delay with a sip of my own tea. Another cough. A silent prayer that the waitress walking by with a tray of crystal water glasses will dump them all over me.

Anything to distract Mother from her oncoming tirade.

“Daphne.”

“Hm?” I ask innocently.

“What did you just say?”

I purse my lips. Nudge the bag at my feet once more. Debate on waving the wrapped pee stick in front of me like a fencing saber to fend off whatever is about to come next.

In the end, though, the damage is already done. “I’m pregnant.”

Mother stares at me. Then, without missing a beat, she returns to her meal. “Well, then that’s that. Obviously, you have to go back to Conrad, and?—”

“It’s not his.”

If the first bombshell didn’t do it, the second one sure does.

I think I see—yup, there it is. The frigid fury she’s spent decades honing into her most powerful weapon. The Ophelia Hamish Special. It starts in the stillness of her fingertips as they clutch the silverware and slowly spreads up her arms, to her chest, and then the rest of her body until her face becomes this frozen, unreadable mask.

It’s honestly impressive.

At least, it would be, if it wasn’t currently aimed at me.

“Who the hell else could it belong to?”

Her sugary-sweet voice is promise aplenty that hell itself is about to open wide and swallow me whole. Shit, she’s about to drag me down there herself.

I don’t know how to answer her. Not just for my own self-preservation, but, like… literally. I don’t know how to tell her about the complete stranger who came to my rescue at the eleventh hour and not only pretended to be my date, but literally, literally burned millions of dollars on exacting vengeance for me.

And then taught me what full-bodied, screaming orgasms actually feel like.

He gave me his first name and his phone number. That should have been plenty for me to find him and just… follow up. See if there’s something actually there, or if it was mutually a one-time thing.

Not that it can’t be a one-time thing.

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