Preston made his way through the sweaty crowd with Abigail following suit. They reached the private lounge at the top of the stairs and excused themselves for the night.
“Are you staying?” Abigail asked Lauren. “You can sleep over our house if you want. You can drink there, too.”
“It’s okay, Abby. I think I’m going to stay here for a little while. This place is fun. I don’t have to worry about men hitting on me.”
Abigail turned to Preston and raised a brow.
“It was so good to see you, Lauren,” Abigail said, giving Lauren a warm hug.
“We should do this again sometime. Maybe lunch?”
“Lunch sounds great.”
“I’ll send Kenneth back to take you home.” Preston kissed Lauren’s forehead. She closed her eyes and released a breath. “Call me if you need anything. Take care.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Making it home safely, Preston laid a very sleepy Abigail in their bed. Despite his sexual fantasies from earlier, he removed her collar and shoes, placing them in the closet.
When Preston went to the kitchen to drink a much-deserved glass of bourbon, the corner of a pink envelope caught his attention.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Feeling the left side of the bed dip, Abigail turned in the sheets. She opened her groggy eyes and saw a hazy back. She blinked again, getting a clearer picture of Preston.
His spine was curved, his head was down, and the veins in his neck were pulsing like uprooted trees. His entire body vibrated. Abigail instantly knew something wasn’t right. Had something happened to Lauren?
Leaving the warm comforting sheets behind, Abigail rose on her knees and went to his side. Placing a hand on his rigid back, she asked low, not wanting to startle him, “Prest, did something happen with Lauren?”
Preston pulled away from her touch as if disgusted by it. He held a paper in his hand. He gripped so furiously that it crumbled under his fingers.
She squinted her eyes, trying to figure out what had upset him this much. Maybe she could catch the wording.
Her heart raced in her chest and jumped to her throat when she read the name of the clinic she’d gone to with her mother days before. There was so much Abigail wanted to say—so much she needed to say, yet no sound came out of her mouth. She was in utter shock, utter dismay, utter agony.
She forgot how to speak but her body remembered to cry. What she cried for she wasn’t sure. Was she relieved she didn’t have to hide this from him anymore or was she sad he found out what she’d kept hidden from him for this long?
Preston released a breath. He didn’t look at her as he said, “I’m flying to Paris tonight. I won’t be back for a couple of weeks. That’s more than enough time for you to pack your things.” The words were said calmly as calm as the sunny day before a deathly hurricane hit a small island.
He stood up from the bed and left her alone in the darkened room. The only sign of fury was the thunderous thud the door made as he closed it behind him. It resonated throughout the walls and shook the bed. It stammered her heart.
Abigail’s heart followed Preston’s every step. She felt it rip out of her chest. Felt it slip under the door as it was dragged down the hall. She felt as Preston stomped on it when he called for the elevator.
“No,” Abigail’s voice was inaudible in the darkness of the night. This was why she’d asked her mother to call the clinic and have her address changed. Abigail knew they’d eventually bill her for what she had done. Why didn’t her mother do what she had asked?
Paris?
For a couple of weeks?
Why was he going to Paris?
Was he leaving her?
He was leaving her.
“No,” she voiced again, tears streamed down her face.
She couldn’t let him leave like this.
As she got out of the bed, a wave of nausea tried to knock her back. Not now. Inhaling through her nose and exhaling through her mouth, she calmed her stomach and found the strength to run after him. There was no way, no way in fucking hell she’d let him leave like this.
Her feet turned cold on the coolness of the floor and her tears chilled her cheeks with utmost fear.
“You don’t want me anymore?” she asked the one question she feared the answer to.
His back was still to hers when he answered, as calm and collected as before, “No, Abigail. When you aborted our child behind my back, you decided on your own you didn’t want a piece of me in your life.”
She wished he’d lose it, maybe then she’d have a reason to be mad at him. Maybe then she could blame someone other than her pitiful self.
Abigail took a step forward and pleaded, “Preston, please, let’s talk.”
The elevator opened, but he didn’t step instead.
“Talk?” He laughed a mirthless laugh, and then he turned around. And Abigail wished he hadn’t. She felt her heart crack the longer she stared at his bloodshot eyes. Although Preston was as tall as a sapling redwood tree, he looked as small as a pinecone.
“The time to talk was as soon as you found out you were pregnant. The time to talk was three fucking days ago. The time to talk was before you called your misandrist mother to help you abort our child. That’s when we should’ve talked. Now there’s nothing left for me to say. You took my voice, my choice. You took something that wasn’t solely yours to take.”
“I-I was terrified,” she said, feeling attacked and misunderstood. “I didn’t know what to do. Come on, Preston, I get pleasure from humiliation. You get turned on by hitting me. What kind of fucked up parents would we be?”
“I guess we’d never know.”
“It was all a lie, wasn’t it?” She wiped the tears from her face that prevented her to look him right in the eye. “When you said, ‘A woman has a right to do whatever she wants with her body.’ Do you really believe that or is that the excuse you use to make yourself feel better after you beat them?”
It was a low blow meant to execute. Abigail wasn’t thinking straight. All she knew was that she wanted to hurt him as badly as he was hurting her. And so, she said the first thing that came to mind, even if what she said held no truth.
In two long strides, Preston was in front of her, gripping her throat with as much force as he could. What she saw in his eyes could never be erased from Abigail’s memory. She wanted to close her eyes, stop feeling the pain that oozed from Preston and seeped into her broken heart. But she kept staring.
“Do it,” she goaded. “Kill me.”
“You’d like that too much,” he spat.
He removed his hand from her throat.
Abigail slid down the wall just in time for his fist to punch a hole through the mirror above her head. A drop of blood painted her forehead and splattered the floor as Preston spoke.
“For fuck’s sake, Abigail! We aren’t teenagers. We aren’t fifteen. We’re both wealthy. We’re fucking married. We recited vows. I collared you. Did that mean nothing to you?”
“Having money and being married doesn’t prevent a woman from terminating a pregnancy. If a woman doesn’t want to have a child, she should be able to decide. Rich or poor. What you just said was incredibly ignorant.” She fought for other women, even if she couldn’t defend herself.
“I don’t give a flying fuck! You talk to me. When you have a problem, you talk to me. You tell me what’s going on. You don’t go running to your mother. You don’t fucking lie to me. You don’t do this behind my fucking back!”
He called for the elevator again, seeing it close.
Abigail was wise to keep her distance, wise not to touch him. As calmly as he’d spoken to her five minutes past, she said, “If I would’ve told you I was pregnant, you would’ve made me keep it. Whatever decision I made, I needed it to be mine. I needed time to process it. Now I know what I want and I—”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he stopped her from speaking more. “I would’ve taken you to the clinic myself. I would’ve c
arried you up the stairs. I would’ve handed you the pills and made you soup. I would’ve bathed you. I would’ve held your hand through every cramp, wiped away every tear. I would’ve kissed you and told you it would be over soon. I would’ve been there for you because I am your husband, your master, and a fucking man. I would’ve never made you keep it if you didn’t want it. And if you really think I’d do such a thing, then I’ve clearly married the wrong person.”
The elevator dinged again and this time he stepped inside.
Abigail wanted to crawl to him and tell him the truth, tell him what had happened, why she’d done it, but she didn’t find it within herself to speak.
Before the doors closed, he said the words that broke her soul, shattered her heart, wounded her body, and left nothing behind but broken shards no phoenix could ever rise from.
“You’ve not only broken my heart, but you’ve broken my trust.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Three days.
Three agonizing days had passed since Preston left his crumbling heart on the marble floor of his apartment next to an equally crumbled Abigail.
Her defeated image pierced his mind like a venomous bite and hadn’t let him go for seventy-two fucking hours. Nonetheless, not one ounce of remorse leaked from his heart for leaving her to drown in a sea of crocodile tears.
She’d made her own decision. Now it was time for her to face the consequences of her actions. Alone. Just as the decision she had made.
Preston ignored the chime of the hotel phone in his room and chugged down his third, and not last, glass of bourbon.
Ninety-one missed calls from Manhattan, New York had been sent to his hotel room after he’d turned off his personal cellphone. He ignored all ninety-one calls. He didn’t have the courage, nor did he have the stamina to hear her voice.
Preston’s heart was broken, shattered like a piece of glass. He’d never known true rage and fright until the day he opened that forsaken pink envelope. Until the seconds his eyes glazed over the name of the same clinic Lauren went to when she terminated her pregnancy almost six years ago.
But this time it wasn’t Lauren’s name on the receipt but Abigail’s. It was his child that had been aborted, not a rapist’s.
“My child,” Preston spat, stabbing a finger on his chest. “My fucking child.”
What hurt him wasn’t so much the act itself—he rather not think of the child who’d be no more—but the secrecy around it, the deceit, the lies she told straight to his ignorant face.
He’d been there for Lauren that day. He’d gone with her to the appointment and had held her hand through every cramp, had wiped her tears away with his own fingers. He would’ve done the same for Abigail and he would’ve done it with love because even though he wanted a family of his own, he wanted Abigail more and her happiness was his own.
Except it wasn’t.
Preston wasn’t happy. He wasn’t cheery. He wasn’t elated, either. What Preston felt in what was left of his broken heart was an endless despair that consumed him entirely.
What kind of fucked up parents would we be?
…is that the excuse you use to make yourself feel better after you beat them?
Abigail’s words, full of hatred and spite, replayed in his head like an overplayed song on repeat.
A gasp bounced from Preston’s lips and into the Paris night when he locked eyes with the little girl in his injured hand.
After Abigail’s revelation, he went to the club, surpassed Elliott and his idiocies, and took the picture of the little girl he had hidden in his desk.
Preston needed to see her. He needed to know he had left behind a part of himself somewhere out in the world so that he wouldn’t feel so alone. Although she wasn’t his daughter, she was alive. She was a piece of him. And no one could ever take that away from him. No matter how much they’d try, she’d be a part of him, and he a part of her.
Fifteen years ago, he could’ve really hurt Calista. He understood why she’d done what she’d done, and he held no hatred toward the woman for she did what she thought was best for her daughter. Little by little, Preston let the little girl go, thinking the best thing for her was to never know of the existence of her biological father.
In the back of his head he thought, no, he’d hoped, he’d find a woman who would love him no matter his mistakes. No matter his past. No matter his present. No matter his desires as sinful and wicked as they might be. When he met Abigail, his hope blossomed into a near future. One so close it was tangible. He could touch it. He could see it.
Oh, how wrong he had been.
He’d never have a child of his own.
He’d never know a daughter’s affection. Or a son’s love.
He’d never see a mirror image of himself in a little boy or girl like he did whenever he looked at his father.
He’d never tell mythological bedtime stories…
There were so many things Preston would never do. Yet again, another woman had taken his only chance to be a father. And all because his sexual desires weren’t as common as fucking missionary style.
Preston traced the roundness of the little girl’s cheeks and felt his heart compress like a seatbelt on an unexpected brake. A quiet tear trickled down his nose and wet her sweet face. He quickly, yet carefully, wiped it away. This picture was the only thing he had of her. It couldn’t be taken from him. Not this.
Anger boiled his blood. He wasn’t the same man he’d been fifteen years ago, and his past had no right determining his future or the kind of father he’d be.
He chugged his fourth glass of bourbon and closed his eyes. He took a long breath as he mourned the irrevocable death of the trust he once held with Abigail. In the span of a minute, he briefly went through the stages of grief.
For the life of him, he couldn’t understand Abigail’s reasoning for not telling him about her pregnancy. Although her words cut him deeply, he knew she hadn’t meant them.
He also knew there was no way she could have aborted their child without speaking to him first. He refused to believe she’d done that, especially after knowing how much he wanted children. He refused to believe Abigail thought he was so callous as to make her have a child she didn’t want.
Throughout his late teens, all Preston had ever wanted was to be accepted and not judged. He gave up soon after he met Calista.
He’d never find someone who would understand him, at least that’s what he had thought. At least that’s what he’d thought until the second he met Abigail. And she was everything he had ever wanted, everything he’d ever dreamed of, everything he’d ever desired and more.
Preston chuckled maliciously.
He’d been wrong.
She was just like the others, except she was worst.
His hand circled the glass until his scathed knuckles blanched. Fuck her for thinking he wouldn’t make a good father. Fuck her for keeping secrets and betraying his trust.
Fuck.
Her.
But…maybe…
If he’d told Abigail about the little girl from the get-go, then this day would’ve been much different. If she’d only spoken to him instead of her mother, then this wouldn’t have happened. If only he’d seen the signs. If only he’d paid more attention to his wife…then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have spent the past three days in hell.
There was an emptiness in his chest, a void so profound no amount of pleads could ever fill. It was then when Preston realized the trust he’d built with Abigail wasn’t just broken, it was forever gone. Irreparable.
And so, he accepted he could never trust her again. He accepted he’d never have a child he could call his own. He accepted his love for Abigail hadn’t died and doubted it’d ever stop.
But Preston needed time.
Time to get himself together.
Time to think of his future, his childless future.
Time to forgive Abigail’s betrayal and time to forgive himself for taking her back after she’d torn him apa
rt.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There was a knock on Abigail’s office door.
Her vision shifted from a plethora of words on her computer screen to the glass that divided her office from Linc’s desk, which was occupied by a very alert Lincoln.
His spine stood straight as a ladder. His lanky fingers typed furiously at the keyboard and his eyes stayed on-task, never losing contact with the screen in front of him.
Abigail hid a giggle but couldn’t help in rolling her eyes.
What was it about Mrs. Melissa Sinclair that intimidated everyone in the office?
As much makeup as the woman put on, as many pantsuits she’d wear, the many speeches she’d give and marches she’d attend, Melissa Sinclair was simply Mom in Abigail’s eyes. The same woman who read bedtime stories every night and put her children above anything in the world.
It was a chimera, but Abigail hoped someday she’d be half the woman her mother was.
“Come in,” Abigail said, sparing Lincoln the trouble of breaking the keyboard.
“Hi, Abby,” Mrs. Sinclair said as she poked her head in the room. “May I have a seat?”
Uh-oh. When her mother addressed her as “Abby” and not “Abigail” during work hours, Abigail knew the pending topic at hand would either be extremely lengthy or annoy her to bits.
Abigail inhaled a breath, mentally preparing herself for her mother’s attack. And there was no doubt in her mind the conversation was going to turn into a war zone. So, Abigail put on her bulletproof vest, picked up her hair in a high ponytail, and used her weapon of choice to defuse the inane chat—a smile.
“Sure,” she said with a sweet smile that was sure to leave cavities. She offered her mother a seat on one of the chairs in front of her desk and pushed her laptop aside to give Mrs. Sinclair the attention she desired.
Mrs. Sinclair’s eyes loomed over Abigail’s desk before she took a seat. Abigail followed her mother’s gaze to the crumbs that’d been left behind by the saltine crackers she’d snacked on earlier in the day. She quickly swept them into the trash bin by her feet. She already had to endure a lecture from Preston and Mike about the cleanliness of her office, she certainly didn’t need another from her mother.
Leashed (Masters of Desires Book 2) Page 12