Chapter Seven
The door swings open, and I smile when Laila freezes at the sight of me.
For a second she just stares.
“Uh…”
Without waiting for permission, I walk past her into the apartment.
Technically, I’m paying for this place anyway.
“What are you doing here?” she asks finally, voice shaky as she stays locked in place.
I ignore the question for now, slowly studying the apartment instead.
At least Brad didn’t blow our money on some luxury penthouse.
Still, I can’t deny the location makes sense. It’s close enough to the hospital that even in LA traffic, we can get her to there in minutes.
The apartment itself is nice.
Modern. Open concept.
The bed is visible just past the kitchen on the right, separated only by one of those half-walls people pretend creates privacy.
It actually reminds me painfully of the first apartment Brad and I shared after moving to LA.
Back when we were broke enough to eat pasta four nights a week and happy enough not to care.
“Nice place,” I comment casually.
“Thanks,” she answers cautiously.
She’s still hovering near the door like she expects Brad to burst through it and rescue her.
“You can close that,” I say, nodding toward the door. “Brad won’t be joining us.”
My eyes lower to her stomach.
The last time I saw her, she was barely showing. Now she’s definitely popped.
Six more weeks.
Only six more weeks and this woman will hopefully disappear from my life forever.
“How do you feel?” I ask because no matter how furious I am, my daughter is still growing inside her.
Laila blinks in surprise at the question.
“I…” She rubs her stomach lightly. “I got dizzy earlier, so I asked Brad to come by.”
“Save the act.” I cross my arms. “I know.”
Her entire face changes instantly.
“He told you?” she whispers, something dangerously close to hope blooming across her expression.
And wow.
I’m really gonna enjoy crushing it.
“Yes,” I say smoothly. “He told me he was only fucking you under duress while you sobbed at his feet and begged him not to leave.”
Her mouth drops open.
“That’s not-”
I wait.
Honestly, I’m waiting for balcony Laila to appear.
The confident one. The woman calling my husband baby and demanding he come “take care of her needs.”
This version looks scared. Pathetic.
To my disappointment, she bursts into tears.
Well. That’s significantly less satisfying.
“It’s no fun kicking a crying woman,” I mutter under my breath.
Laila sobs harder.
“Stop crying,” I say, barely audible over her gasps.
She doesn’t. Great. Regretting every decision that led me here, I switch tactics.
“Laila,” I say more gently.
The last thing I need is stress sending her into premature labor.
“I’m sorry,” she hiccups through tears.
“It’s alright,” I answer smoothly. “You’re hormonal. I understand.”
Her crying slows slightly.
“You do?” she asks cautiously.
She clearly expected me to explode.
I guide her carefully toward one of the stools by the kitchen island and help her sit.
Then I grab her a glass of water.
She accepts it with trembling hands while I lean against the counter and study her quietly.
Her eyes are watery. Her nose is pink from crying.
And I honestly can’t tell if this is genuine guilt or the performance of a lifetime.
Then again… I couldn’t tell if Brad was lying last night either.
That realization settles unpleasantly in my stomach.
When Brad told me to think about the baby… I listened.
Because somewhere between hearing my husband confess and nearly throwing him off a balcony, something cold settled inside me.
My daughter is the only good thing left in this entire situation.
And I will do absolutely anything to protect her.
Even if that means threatening the woman carrying her.
Thankfully, I might not have to.
“What happens now?” Laila asks quietly, staring into her water instead of at me.
I push away from the counter and take the empty glass from her once she’s done.
“Now?” I repeat calmly, placing it in the sink. “Now we continue exactly as planned. You carry my baby to term. You give birth. You receive the remainder of your compensation.”
I turn back toward her with a small smile. “And then we never see each other again.”
It takes a second for the words to fully register.
Then, because apparently, she’s actually stupid enough to ask, she whispers: “What about Brad?”
I tilt my head. “What about him?”
“The baby…” She rubs her stomach for emphasis.
I smile. Colder this time.
“I’m here now.”
Confusion flashes across her face.
“I’ll be here until my daughter is born.”
Laila blinks. “Wait… what?”
“I’m moving in,” I say pleasantly.
Silence.
“You’ve been having so many problems lately,” I continue condescendingly. “Dizziness. Panic attacks. Emotional distress.” I clasp my hands together. “Clearly you need support twenty-four seven.”
Her eyes widen slowly.
“And honestly,” I finish, “who better than me?”
“I don’t understand,” she says, genuinely looking confused. “Brad cheated on you.”
“He did.” I nod once. “With you. The woman I trusted to carry my child.”
She flinches like I physically slapped her.
Good.
“But at the end of the day,” I continue, crossing my arms tightly over my chest, “he’s my husband.”
Her mouth parts slightly.
I don’t owe her an explanation. I definitely don’t owe her justification.
But I need to kill whatever fantasy she’s built in her head. Whatever delusion made her think this affair ended with Brad leaving me and playing happy family with her instead.
“How can you…” she starts weakly.
“Stay?” I finish for her.
I let out a soft laugh. “Do you really have the right to ask me that question?”
Her face pales further.
“I mean…” I tilt my head thoughtfully. “What kind of a woman sleeps with a married man?”
She looks down immediately.
“Actually,” I say, holding up one finger, “what kind of woman practically blackmails a man into her bed?”
Her head snaps back up.
“He’s not innocent,” she says quickly.
“No,” I agree immediately. “He’s not.” I step closer slowly. “But neither are you.”
Laila swallows hard.
“You knew he was married,” I continue calmly. “You knew we were trying to become parents. You knew I trusted you enough to hand over the single most important thing in my life.”
Tears gather in her eyes again.
“And you still called him at night,” I say quietly. “Still cut me out. Still spread your legs for him.”
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she whispers.
“Neither did I.”
Silence fills the apartment.
The refrigerator hums softly behind us while traffic echoes faintly outside the windows.
Laila rubs her stomach again like she’s searching for comfort.
I hate that I have to look at this woman and stay calm because stressing her out could hurt the baby.
“What happens if Brad says no?” she asks eventually.
I smile slowly. “He didn’t.”
Her expression crumples again when she realizes he’s already agreed.
I may not trust that asshole anymore.
But I do know him well enough to know guilt rules him now. And guilt is very easy to manipulate.
“He loves me,” I say simply. “He cheated because he’s weak, not because he stopped loving me.”
Laila’s expression twists painfully.
I study her quietly, wondering if she actually fell in love with him or if she’s just mourning the loss of her personal ATM.
Either way, not my problem.
“How can you be sure?” she asks softly, still clutching onto the tiniest shred of hope.
And honestly, only love could make a woman pathetic enough to ask her boyfriend’s wife whether he’s coming back for her.
“I gave him a choice,” I tell her calmly, making sure to hold her gaze so she doesn’t miss a second of this. “I told him it was either you or me.”
I watch the exact moment panic flashes across her face.
“And he picked me.”
The words feel vicious leaving my mouth.
“He promised you meant nothing,” I continue smoothly. “Just a temptation. A mistake.”
Laila goes completely still.
For a second, I almost feel bad.
Almost.
Then I remember her moaning through my husband’s phone while I stood ten feet away.
The sympathy dies immediately.
“That’s not what he said to me,” she whispers weakly.
“Of course it isn’t.” I tilt my head sympathetically even though I heard him tell her she meant nothing. “What kind of man tells his mistress she’s temporary?”
Her eyes fill with tears again.
Honestly, this girl cries more than I do, and I just found out my husband cheated on me.
I step closer and gently fix the sleeve of her oversized sweater like we’re girlfriends instead of enemies.
“He’s a married man, Laila,” I say softly. “What exactly did you think was going to happen here?”
She stares down at the floor, unable to meet my eyes.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable.
I let her sit with it. Let her sit with every choice that brought us here.
I step back, done consoling her for screwing my husband.
My gaze drifts around the apartment again. Now that I'm actually looking at it, I silently curse Brad.
The man couldn't have sprung for a two-bedroom?
The place is nice enough, but the layout is basically one giant room pretending to be multiple rooms. The kitchen blends into the living area, which blends into the sleeping area.
A nightmare.
Still...
My eyes narrow thoughtfully as I study the space beside the couch.
There's enough room. Not for much, but enough.
A twin bed would fit. Maybe a nightstand if I shoved things around.
It would technically still be part of the living room, but at least I wouldn't be sleeping on a couch for the next six weeks.
Because there is absolutely no way I'm leaving her alone with my daughter after everything that's happened.
Laila sniffles behind me.
I ignore her. Pulling my phone from my purse, I scroll through my contacts.
There's only one person crazy enough to help me pull this off. The line rings once.
Twice.
Then, “Ciao.”
“Aruq.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
Immediately his tone changes. “What happened?”
I glance over my shoulder.
Laila is still sitting at the island, arms wrapped around herself, looking smaller than before.
Then I look back at the apartment.
“I need you,” I mutter.
“Send me the address,” he replies immediately.