Page 116 of Bona Fide

Ah, yes, the first time. Let’s go back and talk about that for one quick second, shall we? Back in May of last year, my still wife decided to publicly announce that we were expecting a child. Our first child.

No one knows that she aborted our first child years ago when I was still “happily” married to her. That she never even had the intention of telling me.

So to keep me within her grasps, she made the executive decision to leak it out to the press and—ta-da—my polls went up, the media was everywhere, and Demi became the Virgin Mary carrying my child.

Until she “miscarried” two months later.

How she got so many people to back her fucking lie up is beyond me. How she found a doctor to agree to it and risk their license wasn’t beyond the leaps and bounds that she would go to make sure her story was pieced together perfectly.

Then I had to give a public announcement about how “deeply saddened” we were about losing our unborn kid and pretend to be distraught, all while Demi clung to me like a fucking leech.

I wanted to push her off the stage I was standing on.

I longed to just tell everyone that I hated this woman, and if she ever said she was pregnant again, it sure as fuck wasn’t my kid. She should have her tubes tied because the woman was Satan and we didn’t need anymore evil lying around.

It only shoved the knife deeper into my chest over the things I’ve had a play in with Reagan’s life. Every single thing that has happened to her was because of me.

Her mother landing in the hospital.

Her entire home being burnt down.

Demi releasing the sex tapes.

Chase being someone that was real but not so real to her. I try to stay out of her life but sometimes I can’t help it.

The nights don’t help and the resources I have only make it easier to get things done with no questions asked. I know that her mother’s home is almost rebuilt. I’m aware that Reagan’s business took a big hit and she shut it down in Connecticut. I was informed that her brother, Marty, is back in the military.

I know more than I should know about a woman who decided to cut the last fragile piece of string between us.

And she never looked back—but I always do.

Do I forgive Reagan?—No.

Do I hate her?—Abso-fucking-lutely.

“Demi is going to leak it to—”

“Who?” I snap.

“The Washington Tribune.”

“Which reporter?”

Em glances down at a pink post-it note. “A Melody Shu...Shurat—”

“I want her here today.”

“But—”

“Em,” I assert. “You’ll be asking those men behind you to hide a dead body while I have to fake mourn my wife’s death if you don’t grab that bitch and bring her here to me today.”

She lets out an unsteady breath, which disturbs me. Not as much as Demi trying to pull a fast one on me but because Em isn’t doing too well.

She looks like she hasn’t slept since we were in Connecticut. She bitches at me to eat, but now that I think about it, I don’t think she eats at all. Her clothes are baggy in places where they never used to be. No amount of coffee perks her up, and she looks miserable.

“Have you been—” Em clears her throat. “—leaving things around?” She means condoms.

So let’s paint a pretty picture of myself since everyone has already seen the selfish shit that I’ve done over the course of a year.

---