Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Natalie
"Come to think of it, Miss Nightingale, you must turn a lot of heads in Vegas. Being a star and all, I bet admirers are lined up around the block, aren't they?"
God, why was Richard asking this?
The car glided through the night, streetlights streaking past the windows like stretched beads of light.
I pressed myself against the car door in the back seat, my clutch balanced on my knees, fingers twisting the velvet fabric of my dress. Emma sat beside me, supposedly dealing with work emails on her phone—or at least pretending to. But I could feel her ears perked up, catching every word.
I'd bet anything Richard had already figured out who I was.
Two months pregnant and my body hadn't changed yet—at least I didn't think so. And back in that bathroom, he'd been close enough to count my eyelashes. If he hadn't recognized me then... well, those two years of sleeping together would've been a complete waste.
"I wouldn't know. I don't pay attention to that stuff." I glanced at Emma, hoping she'd jump in and kill this conversation. But Emma clearly wasn't picking up my signals. She probably wanted me to talk to Richard even more.
"Really?" He laughed softly. "Maybe their tactics weren't sophisticated enough to catch your eye. Or," he paused, a note of amusement creeping in, "you already have a boyfriend, so you don't care about those admirers."
Jesus. Was Richard trying to figure out if I'd found someone new after leaving him? Thanks to him, I'd probably never love anyone else again.
"No," I said flatly. "I'm not planning on being with anyone."
Richard's voice gave nothing away. "That's a shame. A woman like you should be treated well by a man."
I stared at his eyes in the rearview mirror, disbelieving. I never imagined Richard, Mr. Straight-Laced himself, would say something that bordered on flirting.
The car rounded a corner, streetlight washing over Richard's profile.
That sharp jawline, the straight nose, lips pressed into a thin line.
Even from behind, the man was infuriatingly handsome, especially when you knew what kind of arrogant, controlling, cheating bastard lived inside that pretty package.
"What do you like to do in your spare time?" he asked again.
God, would this ever end? If Emma weren't here—I didn't want her knowing about Richard and me—I'd rip off this mask right now and end this stupid charade.
I met his eyes in the mirror. "Singing, writing songs, painting sometimes."
"Painting? What style?"
Damn it, how long was this going to go on? But more than the endless questions, what really pissed me off was that in our two years of marriage, he'd never asked me any of this.
He only cared what I wore to galas, whether I smiled appropriately at charity dinners, whether I'd embarrassed the Winston family in front of those society matrons. But he never cared what I actually liked.
And now? Playing the attentive gentleman for a stranger in a mask.
The irony was suffocating.
"Mr. Winston, do you always interrogate women you just met?" My voice could've frozen the entire car. "Is this how you like to flirt with strangers?"
Emma gasped beside me, nearly dropping her phone.
He went quiet for two seconds, then I heard a low laugh.
"No," he said. "You're special."
Richard turned to look at me. That look—I knew it too well. The same one he used when he wanted to strip me naked and take me to bed.
After a moment, he spoke again. "If I wanted to reach you, could I get your number?"
"No." I didn't hesitate.
Richard raised an eyebrow. "No? What about your manager then?"
"Absolutely!" Emma's enthusiasm was painful.
"Mr. Winston, Nightingale is the most talented artist I've ever worked with!
Someone as successful as you would have so much in common with her!
" As she babbled, she rattled off my phone number without missing a digit, then fished a gold-embossed business card from her bag and passed it forward.
"Mr. Winston, here's my contact info. If you ever want to collaborate with Nightingale, call anytime. I'm available twenty-four seven."
Richard kept one hand on the wheel, pulled out his phone with the other, and entered my number.
Emma, the traitor.
I didn't say another word for the rest of the drive. Neither did Richard.
When the car finally stopped at the hotel, I bolted out. I couldn't stand another second in there with him.
Back in the room, door closed, I leaned against the cold wood, that burning anger still churning inside.
"Oh my God! Sweetheart! Baby!" Emma kicked off her heels the second she got in, spinning around the room.
"Richard is totally into you! Honey, do you know what kind of backer he is?
If he threw even a little support your way, even just publicly praised you, your value, your resources, your opportunities. .. God, I can't even imagine!"
"Emma," I cut through her fantasy, "stay away from him. Don't answer his calls, don't reply to emails. Act like tonight never happened."
"What?" Emma froze. "Do you hear yourself? That's Richard Winston! The guy with the Midas touch! He's interested in you—people dream about opportunities like this!"
"I don't need this opportunity." I pushed off the door and pulled off my mask. "Emma, listen to me. Don't mess with him. This man is more dangerous than you think."
Emma frowned, studying me. "Honey, tell me the truth. Do you two know each other? Or do you know something I don't?"
Her gaze drifted unconsciously to my stomach. My heart lurched.
"No. We don't." I denied it quickly. "I can't afford to mess with someone like him. I don't want trouble, and I sure as hell don't want to be anyone's plaything."
Emma looked at me skeptically. "Okay, honey, your call. But seriously, if he wants to find you, you think we can hide?"
Emma had accidentally voiced my worst fear.
Richard had recognized me. Once he got bored of this game, dragging me back to Blackwood Manor was only a matter of time.
"Emma," I turned to face her, my voice unnaturally calm, "cancel all my California commitments. We're flying back to Vegas first thing tomorrow."
"Are you insane?!" Emma shrieked. "Those contracts have penalty clauses! Combined, they'd wipe out everything you've earned these past two months! And you'll piss off everyone! What about your reputation?"
My fingers unconsciously moved to my stomach. "I'll pay whatever it costs. Reputation, I can rebuild later. But I have to leave. Now."
Staying here meant too much risk of Richard discovering the pregnancy. With his personality, with the Winston family's way of doing things, they'd stop at nothing to take this child. And as Richard's ex-wife, they'd erase me from the baby's life completely.
Emma stared at me for ten seconds. Then she sighed, got up from the couch, and started making calls to change our flights.
"Jesus, baby... what are you so scared of? You know what, forget it. I won't ask. But think this through—once you pay out this money, we're starting from scratch. And it'll be harder. The company's going to have opinions."
"I know." I pulled out my SIM card and tossed it in the trash. "But I don't have a choice."
The next day, we caught the earliest flight back to Vegas.
The penalties nearly bankrupted me. To cover the losses, I started taking every gig I could get.
Mall openings, music festivals, brand events, private parties.
.. if it paid, I showed up. Under that brutal schedule, the harsh stage lights made me dizzy, the pounding bass made the baby kick restlessly, and the air thick with smoke, alcohol, and perfume constantly churned my stomach.
But I endured it. We both needed the money.
Until that night at a department store celebration. Halfway through a song, a violent wave of nausea hit—worse than anything before. I doubled over, hand clamped over my mouth, dry heaving. Gasps and commotion rose from the crowd.
Emma rushed onstage to catch me, speaking quickly into the mic. "Sorry, everyone! Nightingale has acute gastroenteritis..."
She half-dragged, half-carried my limp body back to the cramped backstage dressing room. The second the door closed, I collapsed over the sink, vomiting until tears and snot ran down my face, so weak I could barely stand.
The performance ended in humiliating disaster.
That night, Emma got a call from the company. The boss's fury nearly deafened us both.
"What the hell is she playing at?! She signed a contract—she needs to be professional! All those media and audience members! Now the internet's full of videos of her puking onstage! People are saying everything! Acute gastroenteritis? Who's she kidding?! Is she on drugs?!"
"Boss, she really is sick, seriously sick. Maybe food poisoning..." Emma tried.
"I don't care what kind of poisoning! The contract's crystal clear—if the artist causes a major performance incident for personal reasons, the company can recover all losses! Tell her to think hard! And! We're suspending her activities for two weeks! One more incident like this, you're both fired!"
He hung up.
Emma set down the phone, looking pale. "Natalie, if this keeps up, there's no way you'll hide the pregnancy. And," she handed me her iPad, "look at this."
Comments swarmed across the screen like ants.
"Throwing up like that, she's definitely pregnant."
"Didn't she suddenly cancel all her California shows before? Was that pregnancy too?"
"Some mysterious singer. Probably knocked up and too ashamed to show her face."
"If the pregnancy gets confirmed, the company will probably shelve you or terminate your contract and sue for damages." Emma lowered her voice. "We can't afford that a second time."
"What do we do now?"
Emma chewed her nail, pacing the tiny room.
Finally, she stopped. "Deny everything. I'll work my media contacts, push out press releases.
We'll stick to the gastroenteritis and overwork story.
You..." She looked at me. "I'll take some body shots of you.
I'll get someone I trust to edit them, make you look hot.
Public focus will shift. Once the timing's right, I'll buy some trending topics about your figure. This'll blow over."
A few days later, photos appeared online: "Nightingale Shows Off Fit Physique in Workout Shots.
" In them, my stomach was flat, lines tight.
That night, I posted a bikini beach photo, proportions perfect.
Sure enough, public attention shifted. Pregnancy speculation faded.
A few clothing brands even reached out about partnerships, but my suspension put those on hold.
One ordinary afternoon, I went out for groceries. The supermarket was two blocks down from the apartment, a ten-minute walk. I pushed my cart, tossing in whole wheat bread, low-fat milk, and bananas. The list was long, but I was already tired.
I turned into the baby products aisle to check the price of baby wipes.
And I saw a figure.
Tall build, impeccably tailored dark overcoat, hair slicked back without a strand out of place, broad shoulders radiating power...
Richard.
God, what was he doing here? Was my anxiety making me hallucinate, or had he... actually tracked me down?
I shoved my cart toward the other side and dove into the gap between two tall shelves stacked with diapers and baby bath products.
I held my breath, peering through the gaps between products, eyes locked on that direction.
Then he turned his face slightly.
Not him.
I slid down the shelf to the floor, collapsing. The cart tipped over beside me, apples rolling out. A passing kid gave me a weird look.
Damn it. I'd been scared out of my mind by someone who just looked like Richard.
I couldn't go on like this. I needed to forget Richard.
But I had absolutely no idea how to make that happen.