Page 153 of Puck Prince

“Answer the question!” he yells.

“No.”

I was going to tell him. Eventually. But not like this. Not when he’s red-faced and screaming, and I’m scrambling.

It was supposed to be… Fuck, I don’t know. Different. It was supposed to be different.

His scowl deepens. “No, you won’t answer the question? Or no, you’re not—” His eyes catch on something at my feet. “What’s that?”

I look down, and my stomach drops when I see the sonogram picture poking out.

Shit.

I kick my bag under the stool. “Nothing. It’s none of your?—”

Owen snags the strap of my purse and swings it into his arms. He grips the corner of the sonogram, and it’s like the world around me is melting. I can feel it all coming undone, and I can’t even think straight.

“No!” I scream, grabbing for the photo.

I pull, he pulls. It’s a quick game of tug of war that he wins when he yanks hard, ripping the sonogram in half.

“Owen!” He might as well have ripped my heart in half. My shredded corner of the sonogram is trembling in my hand when Owen takes it from me and pieces the picture back together.

His jaw clenches and unclenches—the telltale sign that all is not right in his world.

Meanwhile, I can’t seem to close mine. I am so shocked and mortified, I can’t do anything but stand here in disbelief.

How did this happen?

His throat bobs, but his eyes don’t lift from the sonogram as he asks, “Whose is it?”

“What?” Is he talking about the picture? Or the baby? Or all of the above?

Either way, the answer is the same: mine.

“Whose baby are you pregnant with, Callie?” His voice shakes, and I’ve never seen Owen like this. All the times I’ve pushed his buttons and driven him crazy, I’ve still never seen him this angry.

Lying will only make it worse.

“It’s yours, Owen. Obviously.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t act like I should know what the fuck is going on here.” His chest rises and falls jaggedly. He looks back to the picture. “Are you sure?”

“We’re together, Owen. Of course, I’m sure.”

“Not for real. For all I know?—”

“Don’t.” It’s my turn to warn him. “You know I wouldn’t do that.”

Our relationship may be fake, but we’re living together. Exclusivity was baked into the arrangement, whether it was spoken or not. I’ve lied about a lot, but I wouldn’t disrespect him like that.

“I don’t know anything,” he says so quietly I almost don’t hear him. He chews his lip, his eyes darting from me to the sonogram. “How long have you known? Did you just find out?”

I want to lie.

How much easier would things be if that was the truth? If I was blissfully unaware until a few hours ago instead of lying to him every single day for weeks?

I swallow down the answer I want to give and force out the truth. “Since the beginning.”

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