Page 30 of Portrait of a Protective Billionaire

This is the only way to do it—in an honest, straightforward manner.

Click!

Oh no. A pit of dread forms in my stomach in seconds, and anxiety punches me harder than it ever has. I am not ready for this.

Evan walks in, and his eyes snag on mine.

"Isabella," he utters. He stands still as I sit with my mouth agape, knowing the words, but they are lodged in my throat. Confusion takes over his face. He closes the door.

"Isabella? Are you okay? I haven't seen you in…" he shakes his head, "two weeks," he finishes, eyebrows raised like he can't believe what he said.

"I'm sorry," I start.

"Please, there's no need to say sorry—"

"No, listen," I state while mustering up courage.

"I have to tell you something," I exclaim. Evan exhales, his demeanor falling with the breath. He waits. I don't know how to say it, phrase it, spell it out for him.

"I'm pregnant," plain and simple. No bullshit. I am pregnant, and he needs to know; that is all. No explanation, no pity, no defense, "I'm sure you can figure out the dilemma," I push my hair out of my face and wipe away a stray tear that I let get away.

"Are…you sure?" he hesitates. I reluctantly nod my head.

"I have morning sickness, and I missed my period. I took a pregnancy test that came out positive," my voice crumbles. No matter how hard my teeth punish the flesh of my lip, it quivers.

Evan puts down his briefcase, and his keys hit the table with a reverberated clang. He takes off his coat to throw onto the couch and lets the air ventilate the growing humidity around him. Hands on his hips, he paces. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Sweat forms on my brow, and the dread inside me only worsens.

"Oh, goodness," he sighs, "That's—um…wow,"

"I know," I apologize. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry that this is happening. This is not a good image, and I know if anyone finds out, it's going to make you appear worse than you already do for helping me, and if you want, I'll abort—"

"Isabella!" he yells, pressing his palm to his forehead, "Sorry…I'm—I'm not mad at you."

I glance up at him. He's not? He keeps surprising me every second of every day.

"Abort? Christ Isabella, I'm not going to force you to get an abortion," his breaths are heavy, and his eyes are closed as he tries to get ahold of himself, "How long?" he ponders.

"Uh, I don't know; I found out today," I answer.

"You have to be at least two months along," he sighs. Every step he takes appears strenuous.

"Evan, you don't need to deal with this. I already have my next move planned. I know where I need to go and how I'm going to do it and—and I can disappear by next week," I stand up, walking towards him to try and stop his pacing, but he half-hazard waves an arm to keep me still.

"Move?! I already told you that is a terrible idea!" his palms are open, hands looking like they are pleading for me to have some sense. They don't match his stern expression or opposing words.

"I can do it this time. I was too attached to modern society, but if I go off the grid for good, then he won't be able to find me," I assert, insistent on my plan.

"Off the grid? What do you mean off the grid? Do you hear yourself? You want to be alone where no one can help you when he finds you—because he will find you again—and you'll be pregnant this time. Absolutely not," his last two words come out in a growl. "I need you to believe in me and, most of all, yourself. I need you to stop making unnecessary plans and stop acting like I think you're some freeloader. What's happening to you right now is what you should be focused on."

"You mean I should be waiting for the police to do their job? Better yet, do it for them?" I snap back. I am beginning to get agitated with his 'see it through' attitude for a situation that needs much more than a positive, rose-tinted view.

"I need you to sit still for two seconds until we can figure out how to catch him," he declares.

"I haven't been able to," I grumble.

"I'm trying to help you be able to! Have you seen the tiniest sign lately that Dante had been around?" I flinch. He lowers his voice, taking a deep breath before continuing. "He's too scared to do anything; hecan'tdo anything.

There are too many eyes on you, and once you leave here thinking you're leaving some fish bait hook, you'd be leaving the only thing keeping him from you."His eyes bore into my soul. I stare back, lips compressed, shoulders tight, eyebrows knit together. "Why won't you let me help you?"he requests.

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