Page 4 of Pregnant Rejected Mate

As I inhale and lift my head toward the ladies in front of me, I notice someone entering the studio through my periphery. Sighing discontentedly because I sense the interruption, I turn in time to see my father walk in.

What the—

“Sierra…” he whispers, brows worried with a frown.

As the yoga class is interrupted, the color drains from my face.

I haven’t seen him in years—ever since I left home in pursuit of freedom.

What does he want now?

“Ladies…” I turn to the class and smile apologetically. “If you’ll excuse me…” I rise to my feet, pointing to the back of the studio. “Please help yourselves to the tea station. We’ll resume the class shortly.”

I turn toward the door as the ladies stretch on their mats, irritation rising like bile in my throat.

Knowing my father, he’s only here for one thing—to ride my coattails of success now that I have my own studio in Charlottesville. It isn’t the first time he’s traced my whereabouts—he does it for a living, after all. Yet, our relationship is too strained for this to be a familial visit. It’s never been pleasant in all the other times he’s reached out to scold me about my life choices.

As a struggling private investigator who’s surpassed his prime, he’s probably here for money.

It’s not like he’s here because he cares about me. It’s either he wants money, or he’s here to chastise me about what I look like. The former seems plausible since my appearance has changed over the years. Still, I can’t put anything past my dad.

Taking a deep breath, I nod toward the door on the left. He waits for me to enter the office first, closing the door behind us.

“What do you want, Dad?” I ask, spewing my irritation with the sharpness in my voice. I throw on a hoodie and take a seat behind my desk, then reach for the drawer. Though I don’t have much, I’ll give him what he wants so he can leave.

“That’s it?” His brown eyes shimmer with distilled sadness, almost as if it’s a front.

It is probably an act—one that I can see right through.

My dad stretches his arms out. “No hug for your old man?”

“Take a seat, Dad,” I sigh, pointing at the chair across me. “This will have to be quick. As you can see, I’m in the middle of a class.”

He drops his arms beside him and sulkily pulls out a chair. “Nice place you got here,” he says as he gazes around the office. “Angel’s Yoga…”

I gulp to hide my irritation, the name of the studio too precious for him to speak. It’s the only thing I’ve held onto from my past, the name symbolizing the precious advice I’d once been given, which led me toward chasing my dream. My father has no right to utter its name.

Yanking open the drawer, I take out my cell phone and unlock the screen. “I’ll do a wire transfer for you—”

“Woah!” Dad bellows, chuckling nervously. “What makes you think I want money?”

“Why else would you be here?” I look up and raise a brow, only then noticing how much he’s aged. The corners of his eyes are wrinkled even with his lips pursed, his hair almost completely grayed.

When did he get so old?

Despite my inhibitions, a flicker of remorse sparks in my chest. I’ve always been walked over by my father, having to run away from his clutches to find my freedom. Yet, I can’t help but feel compassionate toward his life and his struggles.

“I don’t need your money, mi hija…”

The endearing term tugs on my heartstrings, reminding me of a time when I was just that—his child. Sighing, I set my cell phone down and decided to hear him out. Despite how terrible he’d been to me, there was once a time when he was the father to me that every little girl dreams of.

Before Mama died, of course.

For one brief moment, I can push aside my resentment. I don’t owe him anything, but I can give him that much.

“... I just need your help.”

I stare long and hard at my father, trying to make sense of that statement. “My help?”

---