Page 5 of His Perfect Little Heirs

4th Month

I shouldn’t be nervous as I press on the brake with my Converse. My tawny leather skirt sits mid-thigh, and my long-sleeved white body suit clings to my figure, showing off the bump at my lower stomach where butterflies zoom around and babies grow in the figurative flapping of their wings.

I don’t need to be nervous.

After several lessons with Clay, I can easily drive around Connolly’s streets.

For a man who lives by his own rules, a man of infallible nature, he sure likes it whenIobey the law.

1: Flat shoes to drive.

2: Two hands on the wheel at all times.

3: Look in the mirrors every five seconds.

Yes, Sir.

There are no other cars on the road. He won’t let me drive during peak hours or even on a main road. I am not allowed to go over forty kilometres an hour. The only reason he is allowing me to do this at all is because he promised to give me anything I wish. I want to learn to drive.

Beside me, Clay pretends his blue gaze isn’t panoramic and measured. He pretends that relinquishing control doesn’t unnerve him. If I didn’t know him so well, the smooth way he sits and his relaxed expression, would sell the idea.

He hates this.

I smile at the shiny red bonnet. “What type of car is this? Is it fast? Is it a hybrid? We should consider the environment because we have enough money to be mindful, don’t you think?

“Attention on the road.”

“I’m a woman; I can do two things at once.”

“Excellent. You are driving and growing my children inside you. Such a clever girl. Now, attention on the road.”

“You’re so condescending, Sir.”

“I will indulge this conversation another time. Your safety is more important to me than your sensitivities are,” he declares. I slowly sigh, so he adds, “Christ, fine, it’s a BMW.”

Grinning, I focus on the road.

Ahead, I need to take a left, so I indicate, but a grey car is idling on the side of the road, and as I turn the corner, I edge too wide, narrowly missing the taillight.

The man looks up from his GPS and honks the horn before yelling, “Fucking look where you’re going!”

The commotion shocks my pulse to race into my ears.

“I’m sorry,” I say to the car even though it can’t hear me because it’s an inanimate object and the man can’t hear me because he’s inside it, and— I’m losing my mind. “I’m so sorry. Fuck. Iama shit driver. I’m so sorry. I can’t do two things at once; I can’t even do one. I’m failing.”

Somewhere muted in the sea of pregnancy hormones, rational thought flickers—I know I’m being erratic. Everything just erupts these days. A week back, Jasmine and I were allowed to get a coffee together in the city with only a few guards—in sight. I’m sure there were more.

That day, I saw a seat by the window and mentally sat there. After I had ordered my tea, Jasmine and I found it already taken… and I cried. I.Cried.Like, full-blown, how could this happen, that was meant to be for me, this isn’t fair—cried.

And now, my shaky hands fist the wheel and tears spill down my cheeks. My heart races, and the energy beside me is now neither smooth nor relaxed. It’s electrified.

I try not to look at Clay.

Because I can’t fucking do two things at once.

Then, in the rear-view mirror, I watch as one of our black cars parks behind the grey one, another in front, and one parallel to it. The three vehicles lock the car in.

I blanch. “What’s happening? It was my fault.”

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