Page 15 of Flawed

What can he possibly be doing at this hour?

Nothing good.

Maybe I need to give him the benefit of the doubt.

What am I talking about? We can never be together again.

My stomach growls, so I eat the banana and a few crackers. I drink half a bottle of juice then go into the bathroom and fill the bathtub with hot water and bubbles.

I'm in it so long that my fingers wrinkle. I rise, reach for the towel, and get dizzy. I hold on to the top of the tub so I don't fall, closing my eyes and breathing through the nausea.

"Stellina! What happened?" Luca's deep Italian accent booms through the air. He races toward me, grabs the towel, and wraps it around my wet body. He swiftly picks me up.

The stench of stale alcohol and weed fill the air. I wrinkle my nose. "Have you been partying all night?"

"No. I've not been partying."

"Then why do you smell like a brewery?"

"Work," he states as he carries me into the bedroom. When he sets me on the bed, I notice a faded red mark on his cheek.

I glance at him in horror, taking in his expensive suit and loosened tie. I accuse, "Did you have a good time with whatever woman you were with?"

He pins his eyebrows together. "What are you talking about?"

I have no reason to be upset with him. I'm not Luca's, and he's not mine. But it still hurts.

This is what it would be like if we were together.

I glare at him. "Next time, wash the lipstick off your face before you come into my home."

"Lipstick?" he asks, as if he has no clue what I'm talking about.

I blink hard, willing myself not to get emotional, and curse my pregnancy hormones.

This proves my theory that Luca is bad and should never know about our baby.

Our baby.

An overwhelming sensation hits me. It's all too much. I haven't told anyone about the baby. Luca's presence only reminds me how important it is that no one ever knows it's his. I can't hold back any longer and become a sobbing mess.

Luca slides next to me, pulling me onto his lap and holding me to his chest. His signature scent of white musk and patchouli mixes with the alcohol and weed aromas. It's strange, but it's comforting. Maybe it's because it reminds me of our night together.

He holds me tight to him, caressing my head, murmuring, "Shh."

I continue to sob, telling myself to push him away, but I'm unable to. The thought of him with another woman is painful, yet I'm not strong enough to resist his arms around me.

He declares, "I wasn't doing anything with another woman. I promise you."

It makes me cry harder.

"Shh. I had a work event. I swear to you, it was all business. My boss's wife kissed me on the cheek. It was innocent," he claims.

Is he telling the truth?

An Abruzzo wife?

Everything about that statement makes me feel more ill. I should be happy he wasn't with a woman having sex, but the thought of the Abruzzos once again makes it glaringly clear why we can't be together. And I don't know if I can believe his story or not.

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