Romy
CHAPTER SEVEN
The violent, recurring thudding vibrating through the floorboards and walls doesn’t just wake me up, it rattles my teeth.
I groan, a deep, guttural sound full of pure aggravation, and bury myself deeper into the pillow.
I drag my thick floral duvet over my head, praying that whatever construction crew or delusional neighbor that’s causing the racket will miraculously disappear.
Too bad the pounding doesn’t stop. It only grows louder, more frantic, and resembles a heavy fist assaulting my front door that makes my drywall hum.
“Are you kidding me?” I breathe out the thought.
My eyes sting as I finally force them open.
Sleep only found me a mere few hours ago.
I’ve been trapped in a vicious, frustrating cycle of a severe bout of insomnia, whether that’s from pregnancy or contemplating life, I have no idea.
I tossed and turned until my sheets were a tangled mess, and by the time the clock turned to three o’clock, I gave up on sleep.
I spent the remaining twilight hours huddled on the couch, mindlessly binging a television show about a couple restoring crumbling, on-the-brink-of-falling-down castles in the remote foothills of the United Kingdom.
I finally fell asleep around dawn, dreaming of a deep brogue, handsome Scottish man, with muscles galore.
Only to be violently yanked back to reality by a human wrecking ball at the door.
“Ugh.” I furiously let out a huff, fling the covers off me, and my feet hit the cold floor.
I run both hands through my wild, tangled, sleep-riddled hair, trying to push the wayward strands out of my face.
I look down at what I’m wearing: one of Vik’s old, oversized gray T-shirts, a piece of clothing I’m unwilling to part with, plus it’s comfortable and hangs loosely down to my thighs.
“I’m calling the cops!” I bellow toward the foyer, my voice raspy, dry, and thoroughly grumpy.
“I swear to all that’s holy, if you don’t stop beating on my door, I’m letting the boys in blue handle you.
” Miraculously, the knocking stops as I stumble my way closer.
The sudden silence is deafening and music to my ears.
I blink heavily, my brain still not firing on all cylinders as I navigate through my place with only the dim morning light filtering through my blinds.
I reach the counter, my hand instinctively searching for my phone that’s on charge to follow through on my threat.
My fingers brush the glass, lighting the screen up, and my frustration instantly morphs into dread. The lock screen is a wall of notifications: six missed calls and a string of text messages all from a single sender: Alex.
My thumb hovers over the screen, still sleep-deprived and groggy enough my vision blurs, and it takes my clumsy fingers more than a few tries to punch in my passcode.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The explosive pounding starts up again, this time with a vengeance, so loud, so hard it causes me to jump, nearly dropping my phone to the floor
“Romy! Open the door!” a voice roars from the hallway.
A deep, grave, and unmistakable voice. My heart leaps to my throat, completely obliterating any remnants of sleep.
Vik. My brain scrambles, trapped in a crossfire of adrenaline and confusion.
My thumbs frantically tap on the screen, finally inputting the pin number to unlock my Alex’s message thread at the exact same time my feet carry me on autopilot to my front door.
I throw the heavy deadbolt back, slide the security chain off, twist the handle, and pull open the door just as my eyes finally lock on the very last test Alex fired off ten minutes ago.
Alex: Grumpy Billionaire on the loose and heading your way. I tried to stop him. Godspeed and good luck.
I lower the phone slowly, jaw dropping as I come face-to-face with the man himself.
Vik stands in my doorway, and he looks like an absolute madman.
His expensive tailored suit jacket is gone, his white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, and the tie he usually wears with military precision is completely missing.
His dark hair is wild, similar to mine, I’m sure, and his eyes—shadowed, fierce, and bloodshot.
Eyes that are locked on mine with a possessive intensity that makes my breath hitch.
Before I can utter a single syllable, Vik barges past me.
He doesn’t ask for permission. He simply uses his massive frame to crowd me into my small entryway.
May as well close the door so my neighbors don’t hear what I have to say or, better yet, what he might have to say.
“Vik, what the hell are you doing here?” I gasp, taking a step back with each one he takes my way until my body hits the hallway wall.
He doesn’t answer. He brings both of his hands to his dark hair and lets out a harsh, ragged breath similar to a growl.
Then he looks at me, his gaze sweeping over what I’m wearing, the shirt hanging off my shoulder, and he does the last thing I thought he’d do: he turns on his heel, giving me his back, and paces.
“You’re not allowed to move,” he orders, voice booming in the quiet of my apartment. He takes three long strides across the living room before spinning around to face me. “Do you hear me, Romy? I won’t have it. I’m not letting you do this.”
“Have you lost your mind?” I stand there gob smacked, my phone still clutched in my hand.
“Have you?” He steps closer, his chest heaving as if he’s run a marathon.
“New York? You think you can just pack up your things, accept some job offer, and cross the country without a single word to me? You think you can erase the best months of my life and run away to another city? You’re not doing it, Romy.
I’ll double whatever the company offered you. You’re staying here. With me.”
My brain grinds to a screeching halt. New York?
Job offer? A sudden flash of clarity hits me when I realize what happened.
Alex’s cover story. My brilliant friend mentioned she’d feed Vik the massive lie to buy me time, but instead of him backing off, the lie made him completely unhinged.
It drove him straight to my doorstep in a state I’ve never seen before.
“Vik, listen to me...” I start, stepping forward to try and calm him down.
Only as I move, my eyes instinctively flicker past his broad shoulder and to the kitchen counter.
Fuck. My entire body seizes. There, sitting right next to my keys and the notepad from yesterday, is the glossy, black-and-white printout from my OB appointment.
The ultrasound pictures, the tiny, unmistakable peanut-shaped shadow with the medical text printed across the top with my name, the date, due date, and name of the doctor.
God, please don’t look, I say the mantra in my head, eyes darting back to his face. Please, just look at me.
Of course, Vik is either too astute, or he caught the sudden, terrified shift in my gaze.
He is, after all, a man trained to notice the slightest hesitation in a negotiation, the briefest flicker of weakness in an opponent’s eyes.
He follows my line of sight, his head snapping toward the kitchen counter.
“What is that?” he mutters, his pacing grinding to a halt.
“What’s what?” My voice cracks as I lunge forward to block his path. “Vik, don’t.” But it’s too late. He brushes past me with ease, his long legs eating up the distance to the counter. There, he reaches out, his large, tanned, masculine hand picking up the thermal paper.
He stares down at the printout, and I watch as the furious energy completely drains from his posture, replaced with a rigid stillness. His dark eyes scan the image, tracing the tiny, flickering life caught on the grainy ink and traveling to the bold letters typed across the top.
The paper trembles slightly in his fingers.
He doesn’t speak for what feels like an eternity.
The clock on the wall ticks loudly, counting the seconds as the truth finally unravels.
Vik turns his head, gaze lifting from the paper to meet mine.
The fierce angry billionaire who moments ago barged into my apartment is gone.
In his place is a man looking at me with a profound mix of awe, shock, and vulnerability.
“Romy, you’re pregnant.” He swallows hard, voice dropping into a rough, barely audible whisper in the quiet of the room.