Page 27 of Fake Wife for Dr. Secret Daddy

I look up at him sharply, scowling. “Shh! People could hear you.”

Austin looks around, gesturing to the hordes of people not paying attention to us. “You might be the bride but they’re not here for you or me,” my brother reminds me.

I roll my eyes. “Still. Hush.”

He laughs. “I still can’t believe you agreed to this,” he says. “I don’t know how anyone could buy you two being into each other.”

My stomach flickers in an uncomfortable twist. Lying to Austin is not something I ever thought I’d do. But telling him the truth about sleeping with his best friend, a man fifteen years older than me? Yeah, that’s not going to happen.

“You want Dad’s lands back; Ted wants his inheritance.” I look at the ring again and then sip my drink. “It’s a win-win.”

“Hmm,” Austin considers. “What do you get?”

Answers.

But since my older brother doesn’t know that Ted left me pregnant, I spent the last year and months thinking my daughters were dead. He doesn’t know that my soon-to-be father-in-law is the only one who knows where they are.

I can’t tell him. I can’t tell anyone. Who would even believe me? I can’t risk anything stopping me from finding the twins.

So, I shrug, plastering on a fake smile. “Both of your undying loyalty?”

Austin laughs.

It would be better for me to just stay and deal with the party. I would look better and less suspicious to Dr. Sam, who is watching me from the corner of his eye. But the reminder of my girls—my sweet, beautiful girls, who are out there, who are waiting on me…

Well, I can’t just pretend to give a shit about a wedding right now. Especially one as fake as my smile.

“Excuse me,” I murmur, and then down my drink. I raise it as if I’m leaving to go get a new one, and then slip off.

Per Dr. Sam and Grace’s insistence, the engagement party is being held at the property. My house—their house, really—is tucked away only a few yards away, but it’s still hard to find excuses to come inside the main house. This is my chance.

Dr. Sam and Ted are talking excitedly to a group of men in fancy suits, so I think they’ll be distracted for a while. I take the stairs two at a time and try the doorknob. I breathed out a sigh of relief as it turned, and I let myself into Dr. Sam’s home office.

I’ve only been here a handful of times, but I grew up around Dr. Sam. I know that he’s meticulous and records everything. The proof I needed went up in flames… but maybe there’s more evidence, if not outright proof, that I can still find.

I pull open a drawer, seeing a stack of manila folders nestled inside. Just as I reach in, the door swings open.

I freeze, fear coursing through me.

But instead of Dr. Sam, it’s Ted letting himself in.

“What are you doing here?” I snap.

Ted raises his brows, giving me a once-over. " I'm Looking for my blushing bride-to-be. What are you doing here?”

I swallow. “Looking… for booze.”

Ted looks at me disbelievingly. “The open bar downstairs and the staff passing around champagne weren’t sufficient?”

For a moment, I contemplate telling him the truth. Telling him about the pregnancy stick, the fear in my gut when he couldn’t pick up my calls how we were not able to talk when he eventually picked up because he was sounding too busy to talk, and how eventually, all my calls went straight to a filled voicemail which couldn’t take my messages, and how I tried and tried till I gave up. And I wish I could tell him how his deceptive dad also prevented me from reaching out to him. Not to mention the way I worried for weeks that I wouldn’t be enough on my own to cope with the exigency of pregnancy, the pain of labor, the agony of losing them…

But why would he believe me when his father would say I was crazy?

I look at Ted, watching me with genuine concern. He’s a good man, a kind man, but I lie to him.

“Maybe it wasn’t private enough?” I suggest.

Ted’s eyes widen. He looks over his shoulder, then back at me. I can see the second he decides to go with it, the moment his lips tick up in a sly smile. The door clinks shut behind him as he comes inside.

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