Page 97 of Illicit Heir

I finally couldn't take it anymore. No matter how much I denied it, she wouldn't drop her suspicion that Devin's the father of my baby.

Because he is.

Still, I didn't want to admit it yesterday, and nothing has changed. After Mum's rant, I went into my bedroom, shut the door, and told her to stop talking to me.

I stayed in my room the rest of the day, even when she told me to come out for dinner. I refused, so she brought a tray into the bedroom, sat it down, and looked at me, stating, "This is a mess, Lauren."

As if I didn't know it.

My silence told her everything, but I was too tired to deny it anymore.

She sighed, and disappointment crossed her face, as well as worry. She patted me on the shoulder, then left the room, closing the door.

The doctor told me I needed to make sure I ate, and my mum's fed me like clockwork. I wasn't hungry but forced myself to eat so she wouldn't lecture me.

Sleep didn't help me feel any less stressed. I hoped the shower would but it's doing nothing.

I rinse the conditioner out of my hair, step out of the tub, dry off, and put on my clothes. I brush my hair and my teeth, then exit the bathroom.

Mum's waiting for me. She has her arms crossed, sitting at the table. She orders, "Lauren, sit down."

My gut drops. "I don't want to fight anymore. What's done is done."

She points to the chair, claiming, "We're not going to fight, but we need to talk. Sit down."

I groan, wishing I could return to living in my flat. There's no way to avoid my mum. Living with her is something I didn't want to do again. I loved my independence, but now I'm back in her house and have to obey her rules. And it sucks. I have no other options.

I should be grateful we're not homeless yet, especially with a baby on the way.

A baby.

Oh Jesus. I'm screwed.

The never-ending worry about being pregnant and not having an income flares within me. Who knows how long we'll be able to keep the house. And a kid definitely won't help our financial problems. Now, I'll be solely responsible for another life, and I'm still trying to wrap my head around it.

Maybe if Devin knew...

Stop. I have to stop these thoughts. Devin can never know.

I begrudgingly take the seat across from my mum. She puts a piece of Irish bread on my plate and says, "Ya need to eat."

I roll my eyes. "I'm not going to waste away, Mum."

She frets, "Ya haven't had breakfast yet."

I bite the corner of the soda bread to appease her, then swallow some water.

Mum announces, "I know what we're going to do."

My pulse picks up, and I arch my eyebrows, asking, "What do ya mean what we're going to do? About what?"

"About the baby."

My stomach flips. I cautiously ask, "And what's that?"

She looks at me for a moment, making me more nervous. My anxiety grows and grows until I finally say, "Mum, whatever it is, spit it out."

For the millionth time, she warns, "Ya can't ever let the O'Connors know."

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