2. Renee

It’s only been a few weeks, but it feels like years. Of course, being back in my parents’ house makes every single day stretch on for eternity.

It hasn’t changed much since I left. The library still has shelves and shelves of first editions that nobody bothers to look at, a few authentic Monet landscapes, and a medieval globe on a wooden stand with whiskey decanters inside. There’s a sofa made of buttery leather that matches the armchairs at either end and a stained glass window on the east side that turns the morning sun into color-drenched rainbows.

My father and Deacon are sitting and smoking and discussing me as if I’m not in the room. “We’re going to have you and Renee photographed at the Tea Room.” He drags on his cigar. “Essentially, it’s nothing more than a photo op, but the world needs to see that my daughter is back and overjoyed to be working things out with you.”

Deacon nods. “Good plan, Mr. DuBois. The Tea Room will do nicely.”

I want so badly to crack a whiskey decanter over both their heads. If Weston were here, I know he’d be thinking the exact same thing.

But thinking of what Weston would do is exactly what I’m not supposed to be doing. For my sanity’s sake, I need to consider him dead and gone.

For more than my sanity’s sake, too. It isn’t only me I have to worry about now. It’s a baby, too.

“I don’t want to do a night on the town.” I shake my head. “I’m pregnant, in case the two of you forgot.”

Deacon and my father both stare at me like I’ve sprouted a third eyeball.

The former grimaces. “We’re well aware. That doesn’t mean we can’t be photographed having fun.”

I just nod miserably. It’s easier that way and it wouldn’t make a difference if I did something else instead. Neither my father nor Deacon would give a rat’s ass if I stood in the center of this room, stamped my foot, and chanted, Hell, no, I won’t go at the top of my lungs.

I’m their plaything now.

Mywants and needs don’t matter.

My father cocks a brow at me. “Is there something else you want to say, Renee?” His tone suggests I should shake my head quietly, fold my hands in my lap, and keep my yap shut.

Hard as it is, I do exactly that. But if anyone cared to look, they would see my knuckles are white and my skin is stretched tight across my bones, that my smile is more of a miserable grimace, that I can hardly breathe for the weight of being back here on my chest.

Deacon and I have come to an understanding. He will be an appropriate stepfather to my baby, but he won’t be signing his name to the birth certificate because he wants his “legitimate” future child to inherit the substantial wealth he’s accumulated thus far and anything he makes in the future.

I’ve agreed for a couple reasons. First, I don’t have a choice. Second because, even though it’s Deacon and not at all the man I hoped it would be, at least my child will have a father. And third because how else can I provide for my baby without them? I can work and hustle, serve tables, find a pole to grind on if nothing else, but none of those things would give my child the life they deserve.

Weston made sure my options are limited.

And in the dark of night, when I’m alone in my childhood bedroom and the shadows are stretched out in front of me like a long road into despair, I remind myself what he did so I’m not tempted to let my heart start hoping.

That’s what Weston did to me. He killed my hope.

I watch my father swirl his whiskey in his glass and resume his conversation with Deacon like I’ve once again vanished from the room.

I let them ramble on as I lay my hand over my belly. The baby isn’t showing yet, but part of me feels as if I need to protect him or her from the sounds of my father’s and fiancé’s voices.

Meanwhile, I sing quietly under my breath.

“Rock-a-bye baby on the treetops… When the wind blows, the cradle will rock… When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall… And down will come baby, cradle and all.”