Page 92 of Forbidden Desire

Once I’ve finished reading the book, I say a reluctant goodbye to Josie and thank the staff. I know I can’t keep coming in here with these “assessments,” and that my excuses for being here are probably running out. I thank the staff again, and on the way out I think about how I can find more time with Josie. I know I have to talk to Erica again. She probably won’t appreciate that I’ve been in the daycare twice now without her knowing.

Chapter 43

Erica

The warmth from the sun grazes against my skin as the morning light trickles through the curtains of my bedroom. I stretch slowly, welcoming the morning, and careful not to disturb Josie who is still asleep beside me. I brought her into my bed after she cried out in the middle of the night. She was so worked up that I didn’t want to leave her in her room after whatever nightmare she had. I wonder what kind of nightmare a baby can have. Now, I watch her sleep peacefully beside me. She is so calm and so beautiful, her little chest rising and falling slowly as she lies with her limbs spread out comfortably. I remind myself not to make this a habit, despite how comforting it was to have her next to me.

I turn over and check the time on my nightstand. It’s early. Early enough to maybe grab some breakfast before work, something we haven’t done in months. I roll back over and place my hand gently on Josie’s chest, gently nudging her awake. Her eyesflutter open and her mouth puckers in that cute way it always does when she wakes up.

“Mama…?” she says as a question, probably confused as to why she’s in my bed.

“Good morning, little one.” I lean in and give her a kiss on the forehead.

She smiles and begins wiggling under the covers like a worm, like she hadn’t just woken up. I wish I had that energy. I laugh as I watch her form move under my white duvet, every so often hearing her little giggle. We play a game of hide and seek in the covers for a little bit, before I drag her out by her footie pajamas.

“Come here, you,” I say, bringing her up to my chest for her morning nursing.

Once she’s finished and I’ve soaked up our perfect morning in bed together, I carry her to her room to get dressed for the day. I pick out a pair of jeggings and a pink flutter-sleeved t-shirt. Troy had picked it out for her. I remind myself to call him soon. I don’t need him turning up at my work again, worried by my absence.

The truth is, I miss my brother. We used to be so close, and in some ways are even closer now that we are both parents. But there are still so many secrets between us, ones that I’ve wedged between us. I can feel they’re driving us even more apart lately, as my life gets messier. I wonder why I haven’t told him. If it’s really because I’m scared of him going into protective “bigbrother” mode, or if it’s because I don’t want to let him down. I care more about what he thinks than my own father.

I think once I finally give Marco the papers I’ve been holding onto for the past two days, I will feel a pressure lifted from my shoulders. Life can go back to how it was. At least, I hope it will. I know the papers are going to upset him, which is why I’ve been such a coward about giving them to him. Ever since last weekend when he met Josie and we spent time together, he’s been calling or texting. Some I ignore. The others I ward off with some sort of excuse. It’s my own fault for letting him in, and then pushing him away. It’s like I’ve started a game of Tug-of-War, and Josie is the rope. It’s unfair to all parties.

I’ve had the papers tucked away in my bag ever since I picked them up from April’s office. It’s like I can feel them burning through the fabric, reminding me of what needs to be done. I just haven’t found the strength to give them to Marco. I don’t even know what I’ll say. I keep trying to come up with the right words to make him understand, but I haven’t figured them out yet. I wish I could just write it out. That’s what I’m good at. But I know this has to be done face to face.

Once Josie is dressed, I carry her to my closet and she watches me as I slide the hangers of clothes on the rack. I settle on a black pair of trousers and a silky, navy button-down. Once I’m dressed, I don’t want to waste any time on my hair, so I throw it up in a simple bun, giving us more time for breakfast. I scoop Josie up and place her in her stroller before grabbing my bag, which feels heavy from the tempestuous papers it holds.

We ride down in the elevator and walk down the block to one of my favorite breakfast spots. On the way, I stop by the newspaper stand like I usually do to see our paper on display. I get a copy of it at work, but I like seeing what passersby see. I do my usual upkeep, straightening the papers and making sure the cover is facing out. Once I’m satisfied, I give my work a smile.

As I turn to continue on our walk, something stops me in my tracks. My stomach tumbles to the subway tracks below as I reach for the newest tabloid at the end of the row. Shaking, my hand pulls it from the metal rack. My eyes scan over the words, not believing the headline.

Marco Vallejos: Secret Love Child?

I swallow hard, feeling a cold sweat break.

“Excuse me, miss,” says the stand attendant.

I tear my eyes away from the tabloid and look at him, slightly irritated by the interruption.

“Are you going to buy that?” he asks, eyeing the tabloid I’m gripping tightly.

“Oh, um. Yes,” I say meekly, though I would never actually pay for something like this. It’s bullshit journalism. Most of the stories they print are completely bogus, with no sources to back them up. Yet today it’s sucking me in because this story is true. This story is my life.

I hand the attendant a few dollars and tuck the tabloid into my bag. I grab the stroller and almost lean on it for support, as I push Josie down the sidewalk to the café. We are seated within minutes. Josie is in a highchair, pushing around a few Cheerios I brought her. After the waitress takes my order and brings me a hot cup of coffee, I pull out the tabloid from my bag. I look around the café to make sure no one is looking, as if any of them care or would put two and two together.

I read the headline again, swallowing hard. The only positive about this is there are no pictures. None of Marco. None of Josie. I breathe out a small sigh of relief before delving into the short article underneath the bold-faced type:

Could it be that one of Manhattan’s most inconspicuous billionaires has a secret baby? According to a source, the businessman, Marcos Vallejos, otherwise known as The Shark, has recently been spending time with his daughter. It’s unclear how old the baby girl is or how a part of her life Vallejos is, but sources say he’s smitten. At this time, we are unsure of who the mother is, or what the relationship is. The real question is, why has this baby turned up now? And is last year’s Businessman of the Year ready to be Father of the Year?

I slam the tabloid face down on the table, startling Josie. Her hands fly out, causing Cheerios to fall to the floor. I try to take a deep breath, but my cheeks feel like they’re on fire. Internally, I’m fuming. I can’t believe this is on the front page. Mydaughteris on the front page.How could this happen?

“Mama…” says Josie, looking at me and cocking her head to the side.

“Mama’s okay,” I say, even though I’m lying.

When my eggs and bacon are brought to the table, I hardly have an appetite for them, but I manage to eat a little, feeding Josie most of the eggs. She devours them, greedily asking for more with her hands opening and closing. I nibble on bacon, eyeing the overturned tabloid on the table. I try not to imagine strangers reading about my personal life on the front page. I know a lot of people eat that kind of stuff up, not having the common sense to question its validity. But the tabloid says it has a source, a rarity for them.

I furrow my brow as I wonder who it could be. Did someone see us at the diner? Or the zoo? Could it be one of the daycare workers? I knew it had been a mistake taking him there. This whole thing had been one giant mistake and now it’s being played out for the world to see. I feel sick to my stomach with worry, but another emotion is creeping in. Anger is pulsing in me.

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