Chapter 25
Tristan
Out of habit, I check the perimeter of the door for a sign she’s left and secured entry with a wire or other device. Of course there’s nothing. This is Lucia. And Emelia said she’s home. But silence greets me.
I pound my fist again. There’s a noise on the stairs behind me, and I turn. Emelia is at the bottom of the stairs, peering up.
“You’re sure she’s home?”
“If she doesn’t want you here, you need to leave.” The old woman’s accent thickly covers her proper English. If I wasn’t Swiss myself, I might have trouble deciphering her, but her stance and gaze clarify a person might have.
Why is she looking so angry? She’s looking at me like I’ve done something to her. Like she needs to protect Lucia, but Lucia and I haven’t argued. Ever.
The door creaks open. The skin below Lucia’s eyes is swollen, and her cheeks are flushed.
“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” I push through the doorway, the takeaway bag looped around two fingers. “Have you got a fever?”
“Lucia, sweets, are you okay?” Annoyance flashes at the nosy woman, but I step aside to let Lucia deal with her. Why is the landlady inserting herself? I set the food on the counter as the door clicks closed.
“I brought you food. Why haven’t you responded to my text? Are you that sick?”
She places her hand over her stomach and walks backward until her calves hit the mattress. She looks dazed.
“How high is your fever? Have you seen a doctor?”
I step forward, but something in her teary gaze stops me. A tear streams down her cheek.
“Did something happen at work?” Was she late getting into the office? Did Peltz fire her? He wouldn’t. He values her far too much.
“I’m…”
The crying muffles her words. “What?”
Why is she crying? “Lucia. Look at me. I can’t hear you when you speak to the floor.”
What the hell? If that prick fired her ? —
“I’m pregnant.” Tears soak her face.
I back up and grip the back of my neck. That’s not something… my shoes thud across her floor. Past the curtain hanging over her toilet is the sink and I see the plastic test, sitting on trash.
No. I can’t have a child. Lucia doesn’t know what I do. No one here knows what I do. My body count is in the double digits. It’s unknown because I stopped counting. And I don’t feel remorse. I am not a family man.
“You don’t…I don’t expect anything from you.”
I grit my teeth, hearing her but discounting every single word. She’s clearly planning on having it. I can’t confirm her intentions without coming across like a total wanker. My palm covers an eye and a deep throbbing behind my eye socket aches. Jesus fucking christ.
“You told me you were on birth control.” The muscles in my jaw burn from how hard I’m gritting my teeth.
“I am. I even took a pill this morning. I didn’t know.”
I need air. I’m going to say something I can’t take back. My peripheral vision blurs and words don’t exist for the crap?—
She sobs. That’s the last straw. I can’t take it. I slam the door behind me and charge down the stairs. Outside, Emelia greets me. Her accusatory glare chastises more harshly than words ever could.
I’m a fucking asshole. The worst kind of fucking monster. I should be upstairs, consoling Lucia. And I fucking know it, but I take off down the street. I get what I want, and I never wanted a child.
I’m blocks away and who knows on what fucking street when my phone rings and I answer it automatically as all thoughts, and therefore caution, are on hiatus. I’m numb.
“I can’t believe this.” My mother’s voice has me stopping in the middle of a sidewalk. How the fuck does she know? The landlady. My mum? Did Lucia call my mother? “You’re seeing the assistant. Peltz’s assistant. Your boss’s assistant.” Her voice grows incrementally louder with each accusation.
Denial rests on the tip of my tongue. But I can’t fucking deny it because she might have a grandchild arriving in nine months. Fury laps the edges of sanity.
“Who told you?” Not that it’s any of her business. Then I remember lunch. “Dad told you?” The fucking twit.
“Of course, he told me. We’re married. We tell each other everything. You know this.”
Oh, my fucking god. Of course they tell each other everything. They even tell each other who they fuck.
“You need to stop seeing her. I mean it Tristan.”
“It’s none of your concern.” I push forward, squinting to see a street sign so I can figure out where the hell I am and make my way back home. A brisk wind cuts the suit fabric and bites my skin.
There’s a dial tone. I glance at the screen and see it’s disconnected. My mother hung up on me. Bloody brilliant. What a day.
In the ten minutes it takes for me to find my way to my flat, fury rises. Disbelief my traitorous father would tell my mother mingles with the emotions I lack words for. Feelings I’ve never felt before. A sense of helplessness. A knowledge I didn’t handle myself well. Shame because I should have done better. A vision of Lucia’s tear soaked face blinds me. She has to know I’ll support her financially. I needed to leave to get my emotions in check. What did she expect of me? Blindsiding me. Fuck.
More than that, though, what the hell was my father thinking?
As if I mentally summoned him, he’s on the street in front of my flat when I approach.
I storm past him. He follows me.
“What’re you doing here?”
“Your mother called. I was nearby.”
I stab at the code.
“What’s wrong?”
I spin on him, suppressing the urge to throttle his neck. “You told mother? We had lunch less than an hour ago. What did you do? Immediately call her?”
“No.” He speaks slowly, like I’m a wild beast he needs to soothe. He doesn’t have a fucking clue. I could kill him with my bare hands. “She called me to find out how our lunch went.”
“She keeps tabs on me, eh?” I sound like a low class Brit, and I do not fucking care.
“Your mother and I don’t keep secrets from each other.”
The elevator dings and I step in, hands balled into fists. My father wisely steps in cautiously. “What did she say to you?”
I let out a loud breath, replaying the conversation in my head. What did she say? More of nothing. More of exactly what I expected her to say. My head hits the back of the elevator. All this emotion isn’t over the call from my meddling mother, and I bloody well know it.
The ride up to my flat passes in silence.
The doors open and I step out. My father holds the door, hesitating before stepping into my place. “May I come in?”
“You’re here. Come the fuck in.” It’s an insolent response. I’m being an ass. A spoiled fucking brat. I’m just…I did not expect a pregnancy. And Jesus, Lucia crying sucked all. I don’t want to be a father. In my line of work, it’s not a prudent choice. I don’t even like babies.
My father sinks onto a sofa, leaning over his legs, watching me with concern etched around his wrinkled eyes. Growing up, he was hardly ever around. I suppose I should be thankful he’s here now, even if my preference might be otherwise.
“I need a drink. You want anything?”
He shrugs. “Always.”
That’s an accurate statement. I’ve never known dear old Dad to decline a drink.
At the bar, I select the first bourbon I see and pour it into two highball glasses, splashing a little and not giving a damn.
After I deliver a glass to my father, I throw my glass back, drinking the entirety and closing my eyes to the burn down my throat. I sink into an armchair. As the minutes pass, the liquor loosens my muscles almost imperceptibly as my mind goes numb.
When I open my eyes, Dad sits across from me, patiently swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
“Lucia’s pregnant.” Saying those words aloud stirs something inside me. I’m not sure what.
“Oh.” He nods sagely and a smile spreads. “Salut.” He toasts to the air and takes what is most likely his first sip of whatever the fuck I poured.
I narrow my eyes at him, but he’s so much like my grandfather now, there’s no anger. He’s simply a doting old fool.
He sits back, apparently relaxed now that he knows the issue. He throws an arm across the back of the sofa, and crosses an ankle over his knee. “You are my proudest accomplishment.” He waggles an index finger over the rim of the glass he’s holding. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s the absolute truth. This might be a confusing time, but trust me, you won’t regret this child.” He exhales and places the dangling foot back on the ground, leaning forward so he can set the glass on the coffee table. He pushes up his spectacles and places his palms together. “Now, I can understand how having a child with a woman you aren’t in love with might be daunting, but never doubt the love you will feel for that child.”
“Do you not love mother?”
He waffles, weighing his answer. “In retrospect, I was in lust with your mother. It took years for caring to develop to love. But we make our marriage work. And I would do everything over again because of you.” He picks his glass back up again. “Now, what is this girl wanting? You will not be required to marry her. These are modern times. You’re clearly worked up, but really Tristan, you can afford to provide for her and this child. No one needs to know. This is not a tragedy or whatever you are working it up to be in that head of yours.”
Lucia won’t ask for anything. I pinch the bridge of my nose, then push up because I need another drink.
“If she’s being problematic, we can?—”
“She’s not being problematic.” If he knew her, he wouldn’t be saying this. She’s not the problem. I’m the fucking problem.
“Give it time. Someone will counsel her and she’ll come to you with demands.”
The bottle clinks against the marble. “Dad.” I grip the counter, attempting to reign in the swirl of anger steaming from fissures in my black fucking soul. “She’s not like that.”
And as I say it, I know with a certainty deep in my bones she didn’t do this on purpose. I never questioned that. No, I just reacted like I always do. Thinking about me. About what I want.
“If she’s amenable at the moment, hire an attorney. Write up an agreement. Discuss all the hard stuff while you’re in the blissful stage.”
This might be a reason I never went to my parents with any issues growing up. Everything comes down to either money or reputation. Of course, reputation is the sole reason I’m working undercover and am in the blasted situation. What’s that saying? Not too far from the fucking apple tree.
Dad has his phone out, scrolling through what I assume his contact list.
“I don’t need an attorney.” A sigh escapes me and the glass in my hand clinks against the coffee table as I discard it. Another drink will dull my senses and I don’t put myself at risk. Ever. “If you knew Lucia, you wouldn’t bring it up. She’s not like that. And I’ll take care of her and my child so she won’t ever need to fight me. I’ll give her anything she needs. Or wants.”
I might need to convince her to return with me to London when this is over, but I can help her get another job. Hell, if we move to Lyons, she can probably get a job in the Interpol office. If she wants to work and if I know Lucia, she’ll want to.
“Do you know for certain it’s yours?”
Fury strikes before reason surfaces. “What is it with you attacking her?” I stride across the room, energy boiling within. “She’s nothing like what you and mother continually insinuate. We’ve been together almost every night. That child is absolutely mine.”
We didn’t have the discussion agreeing to not see other people, but we didn’t need to. Lucia isn’t like that. She wouldn’t see me and someone else.
Dad nods slowly. There’s nothing defensive in his posture, but he looks thoughtful. The smile playing on his lips shows amusement and takes the absolute piss out of me.
“What?” I bark, sounding as demented as I feel.
“You love her.”
All the anger evaporates, like someone pulled a plug in the dangerously near to overflowing tub’s drain. I sink back into the armchair across from him and close my eyes, letting my head fall back against the cushion. He’s right. I care about her. And I trust her. I don’t think I’m parent material, but there’s no doubt in my mind if she chooses to carry it to term, I’ll take care of her and my child in perpetuity. And Christ, I want her to move with me, wherever I go. I don’t like not being with her and I hate her tears. Dad might be right. This could be love. The crock of shit roiling inside my head and chest. Why didn’t I fucking see this coming?
I open my eyes. Everywhere I look, I see Lucia. The kitchen counter. Her at the door. Crossing the room in one of my shirts. A sock of hers sticks out below the coffee table.
He smiles gently.
“You cannot say anything to mother.” I point my index finger directly at him. “This has to be an exception. I don’t know what we’re going to do, but I don’t need mother meddling.” I stare him in the eye. He knows I’m right. Knowing mum, she’d force abortion pills down Lucia’s throat. She’d see this child as a threat to me and move in to protect me. And she’d be quite concerned about what others would think. She wouldn’t see Lucia as a suitable daughter-in-law, but worse, she’d be convinced no one else would.
Daughter-in-law. Jesus. I need to get out of my head. A child does not automatically equal marriage.
“I’ll give you some time to tell her.” I glare at him. “You have my word. I won’t say anything to your mother. How did you leave things with the girl?”
I study my dad, wondering if he can’t remember Lucia’s name or if referring to her as a girl is a passive slight. It doesn’t matter. I rub my forehead while considering his question. “I left.” Lucia’s tear-streaked face once again materializes in my mind’s eye. “I didn’t handle it well.”
“You’re a Wagner. We don’t always handle things well.” He swirls his bourbon and squints into the golden liquid like a wise man discerning the future. “Might I recommend you take some time? Don’t drink too much more of this,” he lifts the highball glass, “and evaluate your emotions and feelings. You love her. I might be old, but I’m not blind. But before you go back to her, give yourself some time to reflect. If you screw up a second time, you probably won’t get a third chance. And that, my son, is my life’s masterclass. Grovel if you want her. No matter what you do, take it from an old man. Don’t fuck up twice.”
I snort. The retired version of my father is world’s better than his younger self, but he’s off. I learned from him growing up. Sure, I spent most of my adolescence at boarding school, but I witnessed more than one shouting match between my parents. “I don’t think I’ll need to grovel. I left, so I’d keep my mouth shut and wouldn’t need to grovel.”
“Don’t be daft. The woman told you she’s having your child, and you stormed out. A groveling you shall do. Flowers are dandy, diamonds are better.” He holds out an index finger. “And that’s a fucking masterclass.”