Chapter Twenty-Three #2
“Stop it,” she snaps. “You’re as bad as my father. You both just want to control me. I know what I’m doing.”
So Rangi has obviously tried to talk her out of it, too.
“Genevieve is going to market the exhibition and the job as a feminist rebuke to patriarchal power,” I insist. “You can’t deny it—she’s already doing it.
She has an agenda, and she’s going to push it no matter what.
Lumen doesn’t stand for true balance. She wants control, not harmony. She’s fueled by revenge, not progress.”
She stops walking. “I don’t need you or my father making the decision for me.
I’m not blind. I know I’m being used and manipulated.
But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t take the job.
It will still mean exposure for my work that I desperately need.
The job may be ephemeral, but it’s exciting and it’ll get me out in the community, talking to artists and galleries. ”
“You don’t mind crushing Midnight in the process?”
“Oh come on,” she scoffs, “you’re as much of a drama queen as Dad. It’s not as if Midnight is going to go under if I take this role.”
“So Rangi said the same thing?”
That makes her think. She looks away, across the gently rolling waves, to where the cornflower-blue sky meets the sea.
“I’m not trying to control you,” I say sincerely. “I just don’t want you to be manipulated. You are going to be a great artist. You don’t need Lumen to do that. I’d be happy to help you get exposure for your work, if you want me to.”
She swallows, then looks back at me. “Yeah, that doesn’t sound patronizing at all.”
I frown. “I have connections, and you don’t. How is it patronizing?”
Now her eyes turn glassy. “I want to make it on my own.” Her statement is heartfelt. “It’s important to me.”
“I understand… but there’s nothing wrong with having a helping hand from friends and family. Most young people do at some point…”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, stop talking to me as if I’m fifteen!”
Jesus, she looks magnificent standing there, her eyes blazing, radiant and beautiful, like a true goddess.
“I’m not a child,” she says.
“I know.”
“I need to make my own way… it’s important to me that I can support myself.”
“I understand. I know your dad has bought your cars and given you money all your life, and it feels important to be able to earn your own money so that—”
“No.” She cuts me off mid-sentence. “It’s not that.” She hesitates. “I wasn’t going to tell you yet.”
“Tell me what?”
“I’m pregnant.”
We stand there silently. A wave creeps up the sand, heading for my shoes, and I take a step back. She notices and frowns as if she thinks I’m moving away from her. I wasn’t. Was I? I’m so shocked, I can’t even process the information.
She swallows. “Say something.”
“Is it mine?”
She meets my gaze, her eyes widening. “Seriously?”
Shit, I’ve insulted her. I can’t get my brain to function. “We used condoms,” I point out.
“They’re not infallible. And your first one must have been at least six years old, right?”
It’s true, but I still can’t believe I’ve been that unlucky. Jesus. How can this have happened to me twice?
As soon as I think that, another thought enters my head. “Did you do this on purpose?”
“Did I tear a condom on purpose?”
I glare at her.
“No,” she says, aghast. “Of course not. I’m not like Eleanor.
” She looks hurt. I think she was expecting—or maybe hoping—that I’d be secretly thrilled.
Say ‘I’ve been dreaming about this,’ or something similar and sweep her up in my arms. Or at least give her a hug and tell her it doesn’t matter, and everything will be right.
But it does matter. She might not have done it on purpose, but she’s obviously going to want me to be involved. It’s still a form of control.
I feel angry, and I know that’s unfair, because she didn’t ask for it either. If it truly was an accident, it would have been as much of a shock to her as it was to me. But it’s impossible not to feel as if she planned it.
“Are you going to keep it?” I ask.
The breeze throws salt spray over us, and she shivers, wrapping her arms around herself.
“I’m literally only two days late. I took a test because I’m usually pretty regular.
I wasn’t going to say anything because obviously there’s a high risk of miscarriage.
So it feels a bit early to be talking about that. ”
“Surely the earlier the better, right?”
She glares at me. “You’re being incredibly insensitive.”
Fuck. I’d forgotten about what happened with Connor. He wanted her to have an abortion. And of course, she miscarried, so that’s why she mentioned that.
Guilt stabs me. I’m angry at myself for reacting the same way, but I can’t help it.
“Insensitive because I want to know what effect this is going to have on my life?” My heart is racing, and panic is rising inside me.
“You have no idea what an impact this could have on me. What is your father going to say? Your brother? How do you think this will reflect on me in the business world? Knocking up a girl half my age?”
Her eyes blaze. “I’m not a girl! And I’m not half your age!”
“Marama, come on. You know what I’m saying. I’m a grandfather. Christ, the number of times I warned Orson not to get pregnant…” I close my eyes and massage the bridge of my nose, mortified at my stupidity.
I fight with my frustration, and do my best to wrestle it under control.
When I finally open my eyes, she’s watching me, her expression carefully blank.
I know I’ve disappointed her, and that kills me, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
I can’t brush this off. It feels catastrophic, and I can’t change that.
We study each other while the cool breeze blows salt spray across us.
I feel miserable and constricted, as if I’m a hostage who’s been forced into a cell too small for me to stand upright.
The door’s open, but I can’t bring myself to walk out of it and face the waiting crowd, because I’ll have to admit it’s all my own doing.
“You don’t have to worry,” she says eventually. Her tone is cold and hard. “I don’t want anything from you. If I don’t miscarry, I’ll decide what to do, and I’ll cope with the fallout alone.”
I frown. “I would always support you financially…”
“I don’t want your money.” Her tone is icy.
“You didn’t have a say in this, and I would never force you to be involved.
But equally, I won’t be your dirty little secret.
If you don’t want to acknowledge this child, I won’t tell anyone you’re the father.
Including the child. You won’t exist, as far as it’s concerned. ”
It’s as if she’s slipped a knife between my ribs and is turning it slowly. “Marama…”
But she turns and walks away, back toward the stairs.
I should run after her, catch her hand, and pull her into my arms. Tell her I’m sorry, that I didn’t mean it, that I’m thrilled, that I’ll marry her, and that I can’t wait to hold the baby in my arms.
But I can’t. I watch her running up the stairs, and then she disappears through the gate, without looking back.
I walk over to one of the large rocks, sink onto it, and lean forward, my head in my hands, staring at the sand.
I feel numb. I’ve been such a fool. My heart aches.
More than anything, I want to tell her that I’ll stand by her, but I can’t get past the effect it would have on my life.
I’ve seen colleagues who’ve been in this position, who’ve had affairs and got caught, and their personal lives have been revealed to the world, as if their chests have been cracked and their ribs opened and their heart has been exposed for everyone to see.
People think it’s amusing to bring down powerful men—it makes them seem human and small.
It doesn’t matter that I consider I’ve climbed the executive ladder ethically and responsibly—I’ve cultivated a ruthless and brutal reputation, and it’s going to come back and bite me in the ass.
Even if Marama doesn’t admit I’m the father, it will be a feeding frenzy because of the recent headlines.
Genevieve is going to be like a Burmese python at a goat buffet.
My hands slide further into my hair, and I close my eyes.
I feel perilously close to tears, which is unlike me.
I can’t believe I’ve fucked everything up so completely.
I’ve spent a lifetime creating myself a solid reputation to protect myself, and it turns out it can be torn down like a paper screen.
And to top it all, I’ve lost the one thing that made life worth living. I wouldn’t be surprised if she never spoke to me again after this.
It’s another ten minutes before I feel able to walk back up the stairs, and then I only do so because it’s starting to rain.
I don’t want to have to enter the grounds, but there’s no other way out, so I go through the gate and cross the lawn.
Luckily, the family have gone inside, and there’s no sign of Marama.
I circle the house and stride out toward the Aston. Unfortunately, as I get close, the front door opens and Kingi comes out.
Part of me wants to run to the car, jump in, and drive away before he gets there, but I force myself to stop and turn to face him.
He marches up to me, six-foot-four of pure muscle and hair and fury, and before I can say anything, he draws back his arm and punches me, right in the face.
It explodes with pain. I stumble back, lose my balance, and fall onto my ass on the gravel. When I lift my hand to touch my lip, it comes away covered in blood.
All my fight has gone. I sit there miserably, wishing the ground would open and swallow me up, the rain soaking my shirt.
Kingi glares at me. “Mum convinced Dad that he was bigger than this and should keep out of it, but I don’t have any such convictions. You’ve hurt my sister, and you’re old enough to know better.”
I wipe my mouth on my shirt sleeve. “I know.”
“You fucking idiot,” he says. “Of all the women in the city you could have picked. She’s one in a million, Spencer. And you treat her like this?”
Has Marama told them she’s pregnant? Or is he just angry that she’s so obviously upset? It doesn’t matter. His reaction is totally justified.
At any other time in my life, I would have subdued him with a mere glare and told him to mind his own fucking business. But I’m so ashamed that I just sit there, elbows on my knees, hands hanging, fighting to control my emotions.
Kingi doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, eventually, he sighs and holds out his hand.
I stare at it mutely, then look up at him. To my embarrassment, there’s pity on his face.
He flicks his fingers and says, a bit more gently, “Get up.”
I take his hand and let him pull me to my feet.
“Wait there,” he says. Then he turns and goes back to the house.
I hesitate, desperate to go, but force myself to wait as I try to staunch the flow of blood with my shirt sleeve.
A few minutes later, he comes back out with a wet cloth and hands it to me. He stands there, shielding me from the house while I wipe my face and hands.
“Put some pressure on it,” he advises. So I press the cloth over my split lip for a bit until eventually the blood stops flowing.
He’s holding something else, and he hands it to me—it’s a T-shirt. I look down and realize my shirt is covered in blood. Without saying anything, I unbutton it and take it off, then accept the tee and pull it on. It’s too big for me, but it’s clean, and I appreciate the gesture.
I toss the blood-covered shirt into the Aston. Then turn back to him. “Thanks.”
“You’re a good guy,” he says, puzzled. “Why did you do that? To her? To us?”
I check my lip. It has nearly stopped bleeding. “Because I love her.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “What?”
I hold out the cloth. He shakes his head, so I toss that in the Aston as well.
“Have you told her?” he says.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Nobody is interested in my feelings, Kingi. Only in how it looks.”
He studies my face. He has the same amber eyes as Marama. He’s a good-looking guy beneath all the hair.
“She loves you too,” he says simply.
“I know.” I glance at the house. Is she watching? I sigh. It doesn’t matter. “Thanks for the tee.” I get into the car.
He leans on the door and bends to look at me. “You deserved to be hit.”
I shiver as the breeze blows the light rain into the car. “You think I don’t know that?”
“Not everyone wants to see you fail, Spencer.”
I swallow and wince, tasting blood. “I think we both know that’s not true.”
He goes to say something, then moves back. I close the door, start the engine, and head off down the drive.
When I glance in my rear-view mirror, I see him watching me, oblivious to the rain, before he finally turns and goes back inside.