Page 316 of The Christmas Wife

"Are you two together, Mr. Whittington?"

"Are you marrying Zara, Mr. Whittington?"

"Are you pregnant, Zara?"

"Yes."

I hear her answer, and for a second, it doesn’t register. And then, it does. It must take the journalists by surprise, too, because for a second, there’s silence. I glance at her, trying to keep all expression from my face, and hoping to god I succeed.

"Congratulations, how many weeks are you along, Zara?"

"Are the two of you already engaged?"

"Where’s your ring, Zara?"

"Will you be by Mr. Whittington’s side when he campaigns, instead of behind the scenes?"

I squeeze her hand, and she returns the pressure. She’s pregnant. With my child. And she didn’t think to tell me about it? Is this her way of getting back at me for coercing her into a situation where she has no choice but to marry me? Andconsidering she’s pregnant, isn’t that best for the child, too? I raise my hand and wait until the journalists quieten.

"Zara and I are together. We haven’t set any plans for a wedding. When we do, we’ll let you know. That’s all I’m going to say right now."

I begin to shoulder my way past the first rows of paps, but she tugs on my arm. I turn to find she hasn’t moved from her place. She tips up her chin at me. "I have something to say."

"Now?"

She nods.

I frown, trying to read her features, but unable to understand what that look in her eyes means. When she stays silent, I turn to the journalists and, once more, raise my hand. When they fall silent, I gesture toward Zara. "My soon to-be wife wants to share a few words."

I step back by her side. She squeezes down on my hand. Her fingers are cold once more. A tremor runs down her body. Then she lowers her chin. "I’m sorry, Hunter, but it’s best for it to come out all at once."

Before I can ask what she means, she’s turned back to the journalists.

"I became pregnant when I was sixteen and lost my son when I was nineteen."

50

Zara

"You didn’t trust me enough to tell me about this before you broke it to the media?" Hunter glares at me from across his office.

After I’d ripped open my past and shared it with the press, we were bombarded by questions. Hunter, however, shouldered his way through the throng with me in tow. His security pulled up in a car, and we made a speedy getaway. All through the trip, we neither looked nor spoke to each other. Our phones vibrating off the hook, but by mutual, unspoken consent, neither of us checked our devices. He also did not let go of my hand.

We drew up to his office, and he led me through a path between desks occupied by his team. Most of them were hard at work, regardless of the fact that it was a weekend. That’s the nature of an election campaign. There are no ‘off’ days, not until the poll results are declared—and not even after that, when the real work begins. Most of them, however, fell silent in our wake. No doubt, seeing their leader pull me along with his fingersthreaded through mine was enough to make them realize things had changed.

He barked at his assistant to not let anyone in, then he ushered me inside his office, shut the door, and locked it for good measure. Only then, did he let go of my hand. I avoided his table and the chairs around it and walked over to the sofa pushed up against the wall. I sank into it, placed my bag on the seat next to me, and folded my hands in my lap. Now, I watch as he paces back-forth-back on the carpet.

"I thought you already knew," I finally offer.

He turns on me. "Is that the best you can do?"

"It’s a reasonable assumption. You had me investigated. You know everything about me, right down to my hot beverage of choice. Of course, I assumed you knew about my past."

“Apparently, my investigators failed to discover the sibling who died was not your sibling but your son.”

I wince, then squeezes my eyes shut. “I suppose I should be grateful that the people I hired to wipe out that particular detail of my past came through.” I rub my chest. “My son. I gave birth to him, then watched as he was buried. Then wiped out his connection to me. I am a terrible mother.”

“You’re not, Zara. You are the strongest, bravest person I have ever met.”

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