Page 4 of All the Forbidden Things
I reach for my phone, moving on autopilot. I need to call Aaron, my lawyer. There’s absolutely no way Whitney is leaving here today with Layla, and I need to know what my rights are.
“Yeah, about that . . .”
Whit is finally looking at me but stops talking when my eyes meet hers. Her chin tilts, and I brace for the fight she’s about to put up. She can argue with me all she likes, but there is no fucking way she’s taking my daughter to live with Alix Gardener in whichever hotel he’s currently staying at Daddy’s expense.
I tap the screen of my phone where Aaron’s number is displayed and listen for the dial tone.
“We probably need to have a paternity test to work out which of you is the father.”
And that’s the blow that ends me.
My phone crashes to the floor, and as I hold Layla tightly against me, I’m finally brought to my knees.
“She can stay here with you while we work all of that out, but we’ll have to get it sor—”
“Get out!” I almost choke on my words. “Get the fuck out of my house!”
Layla startles before she screams. She doesn’t just cry, she screams.
“Max, calm down; you’re scaring her.”
“What the fuck do you care?” Regaining my composure, I let the adrenaline now coursing through me help lift me to my feet. I lay my wailing daughter back in her crib and move around the bed to Whitney.
My first thought is to tell her to take her daughter with her. If the kid’s not mine, then fuck it, what do I care who she lives with? But Layla’s cries hit my very soul. They permeate my bloodstream and flow right through every part of my body.
She’s mine.
If she weren’t mine, her cries wouldn’t affect me that way, right?
Jesus fucking Christ let me be right.
All of these thoughts rush through me as I stalk towards her. I’ve no clue what the look I’m wearing conveys to Whitney, but she’s moving before I even reach her, backing away from me towards the bedroom door, holding up her hands. I’m not sure if she’s surrendering or telling me to stop. I don’t care. I don’t give a single fuck. I can barely breathe, never mind think straight.
“Keep moving. Get out. Get the fuck out now.” My voice conveys a calmness I most definitely donotpossess.
Whitney turns, heads out of the bedroom, along the galleried landing, and down the stairs as I follow.
When she reaches the front door, she turns. “I did try, Max. I wanted it to be you, not him. I’m sorry.”
Feeling utterly defeated, I shake my head. “Just go, Whit. I’ll never believe a single word that comes out of your lying, deceitful mouth again.”
She looks over her shoulder, and that’s when I notice Gardener waiting in a huge four-wheel-drive truck outside the house. Every part of me wants to go outside and kill the fucker, rip his limbs off and feed them to him. But I’mmorethan aware of what the consequences will be if I were to beat, maim, or kill Alix Gardener.
He’s a slippery, slimy little worm who’ll run to Daddy and have me arrested for sure. Then what? Where will that leave Layla? It’ll be left to those two to raise her, and I’ll have no part in her life if I’m in prison.
Fuck me.
Calling on every ounce of willpower I’m ever likely to possess, I remain inside my house. Balling my hands into fists, I close my eyes and tilt my head up towards the ceiling. The tattered pieces of my heart regroup and manage to beat strong enough to send adrenalin-filled blood coursing through my veins. It rushes loudly through my ears, the sound only interrupted by Layla’s distant cries.
That sound is what anchors me to the spot and stops me from carrying out every terrible blow I want to bestow upon the two people in front of me.
Layla. She’s all that matters. She’s everything. I won’t do what the press and the public have come to expect of me. I won’t fight. I won’t get arrested. I won’t bethatperson. For Layla, I’ll do better. For Layla, I keep my hands to myself.
I open my eyes and slice my gaze back to where Whitney remains watching me cautiously from the front door. She was obviously with Alix and not at the spa yesterday and last night. While I looked after our daughter and lost sleep worrying about my wife’s mental wellbeing, she was with another man. A man she’s been having an affair with—been fucking—long enough that there’s a real possibility he could be Layla’s father.
“How long, Whit? Were you with him the whole time we were together?” The question is out before I have a chance to consider whether I really want to know the answer.
She nods. Not even a verbal response. I don’t even warrant that much from her. Just a nod.
