Page 26 of Oops Baby for the Billionaire
“I’ve been managing fine for four months without you.”
“Managing? Jesus Christ. Tell me you have a safe place to sleep tonight.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it.
My blood turns to ice. “Willa.”
“I have a place,” she says quickly. Too quickly. “It’s just complicated.”
“How is your housing situation complicated?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“That doesn’t fill me with hope.”
“It’s a temporary arrangement.”
Everything clicks into place with sickening clarity. The phone call that night—her father, something about rent. Her panic when I found her. Working as wait staff while attending university. Saving for an apartment deposit while pregnant.
“You’re homeless.” The words come out as a growl.
“I’m not homeless.” Her voice cracks. “I have a couch.”
“A couch where?”
She wraps her arms around herself, around our baby. “My studio space in the art building.”
“You’re sleeping in a fucking art studio?”
“It’s fine. It’s safe. There’s a bathroom down the hall, and?—”
“How long have you been staying there?” My voice is dangerously quiet now, because I already know the answer.
She lifts her chin. “Since that night.”
She’s been sleeping on a couch in an art studio since I took her virginity and put a baby in her belly. And she couldn’t get a fuckingmeetingwith me.
I’m going to hell.
“What about your father?” I remember the fury in her voice on the phone.
“He...” She shrugs helplessly. “He has problems. Gambling. Drinking. He lost our apartment. I saw it coming, so I moved my important things to the studio before the eviction.”
“You’ve been all alone, pregnant and homeless for four months?”
“I’ve been managing?—“
“Stop saying that word.” I pull out my phone. “You’re coming home with me tonight.”
“No.” She backs up again. “No, I’m not. This is exactly why I was worried about telling you. You’re trying to take over, and I need?—”
“What you need is a safe place to sleep. A real bed. Proper nutrition. Medical care that isn’t at a student clinic.” My fingers fly across my phone screen, sending messages to my driver, my housekeeper, everyone. “You need someone taking care of you.”
“I’ve been taking care of myself!”
“On a couch. In an art studio.” I look up from my phone, and whatever she sees in my face makes her step back again. But this time, I follow. “Do they even know you’re living there? Or are you hiding that, too?”
Her silence is answer enough.
