Chapter Four

Alittle over a decade ago, my sister Persy, my best friend Sailor, Aisling, and I were at a charity ball, hosted by the Fitzpatricks.

As we watched one of our high school friends being paraded around like a prized horse by one of the older men, we made a pact there and then. We promised each other to only marry out of love.

Not because of money, not because of circumstances, or any other ulterior motive.

Not all of us fulfilled that promise with equal success.

Sailor, forever the overachiever, had kept her word. Hers was a love match by the book, full of heart emojis and chubby-cheeked babies, and a reformed manwhore of a husband who kissed the ground she walked upon.

Persy married Cillian Fitzpatrick, Hunter’s brother. Those two were what I called a hot mess express. They’d started as strictly business. But I knew my sister had always loved the eldest Fitzpatrick brother. He, in return, fell in love with her the way you fall into an abyss. Hard and fast, with nothing to grasp on your way down.

Aisling was caught in the poisonous claws of Boston’s favorite monster, only to find it was lethal to everyone but her. Sam Brennan had no fear of God, but touch a hair on his wife’s head and he would tear the city apart.

And then there was me.

I knew I’d never marry, yet I’d still participated in the pact. Not because I believed I’d change my mind, but because I understood my sister, Aisling, and Sailor needed that reassurance.

The reassurance that I was okay. That nothing was broken. That I was capable of falling in love, even though I wasn’t.

Or maybe I was. I wouldn’t know, because I’d never been at risk of facing such a travesty.

“Ma’am? Mistress of the manor? Are you even with us?” Sailor snapped her fingers in front of my face, trying to pull me out of my reverie. We were all flung over the couch in my apartment, enjoying our weekly takeout meal. Peruvian, this time. Me, Sailor, Persy, and Aisling, Cillian and Hunter’s baby sister.

“Her brain short-circuited.” Aisling swept her raven-black hair off her face, snatching my phone from between my fingers while munching on seafood paella. “She must be overwhelmed. Pass me the wine, please. I’ll take over.”

Aisling was tucked next to me. Persy, with her golden hair fanned over my shoulder in silky ribbons, sat on my other side, peeking over my head to watch the screen as Aisling scrolled through my phone. Perched on the coffee table, Sailor—redheaded, freckled, and youthful—refilled all of our wine glasses and wolfed down ceviche.

I’d designed my apartment to express my personality. And my personality, according to the tiny place I occupied, was schizophrenic, fun, and in desperate need of a good scrub.

With palm tree wallpaper, a deep green ceiling, and bright orange couch, you couldn’t accuse me of having conservative taste. I had pop art paintings, a collection of vases from all around the world, and prints of feminist quotes I found particularly compelling.

Oh, and massive promotional posters of me wearing nothing but a thong and a smile, enjoying a champagne bath in a huge glass. Those were plastered all over Boston’s billboards too.

Madame Mayhem: Where Your Morals Go to Die

“I can’t believe you two are drinking.” Sailor peered at Persy and Aisling, both of them mothers to breastfed babies. Aisling, especially, was the kind of woman who couldn’t even jaywalk without breaking into hives. Ambrose, her son, was still tiny.

“I cannot believe you never pumped and dumped.” Aisling “Ash” Fitzpatrick shrugged, taking another sip of her wine. “And people think I’m the nerdy one.”

“You are!” we all said in unison.

Ash had been late to the Boston Belles party. Persy and I knew Sailor through school, but Aisling became part of the gang only after Sailor had met Hunter. She was the goodie two-shoes out of us four. The doctor. The pedigreed, well-heeled daughter of an oil family who went and married Boston’s most brutal and forbidding mafia prince.

“I know they call breastmilk liquid gold. But this?” Persy lifted her glass, clucking her tongue. “This is priceless. I have to enjoy it while I can.”

“Why’s that?” Sailor frowned.

Persy’s soot-black eyelashes concealed her eyes as she looked down, grinning.

“Cillian and I will be trying for a third one in a few months.”

“You guys are like rabbits.” I gagged.

“You know how it is when you want a little one,” Persy said defensively.

A stab of agony cut through my insides. I’d been going out and getting trashed every night since Doctor Bjorn informed me my uterus was more useless than the G in Lasagna. I’d been trying to drink and party away the pain. I couldn’t believe how, overnight, I went from hell on heels to a pile of hormones. I couldn’t reconcile my old self with the new one. Why did I want a child? They were messy and expensive and messed with your sleep.

But they were yours. Your family. Your constant. Your compass.

I was surprised with how my friends and sister had taken the news that I was in a race against the clock to get knocked up. They were so supportive, so excited, it made me feel a little less sorry for myself.

Persy volunteered to babysit for me as much as I wanted (“I already have two at home, what’s one more?”), Ash offered to take night duties (“I’m a doctor, pulling all-nighters is no skin off my back”), and Sailor said she’d give me all of her baby supplies and furniture (“My way of telling Hunter there’s no way in hell we’re having a third one”).

Now there was just the measly, small business of, you know, getting pregnant.

Taking Devon Whitehall up on his offer was a no-go. I had zero desire to force my child into an outdated institution of stuffy, inbred white people.

Which was why we were now scrolling through sperm donor profiles to see if there was someone who tickled my fancy. Which was depressing, because the meaningful qualities in humans weren’t something you could find on a supermarket list. You had to experience a person to appreciate them fully. That was why online dating almost always sucked.

Blond and Bashful, AKA donor number 4322, born 1998, whose favorite animal was a dolphin might be genetically great, but what if he was a terrible human?

“What about this one?” Ash shoved the phone screen in my face. There was no picture of the guy—just another gray, faceless avatar—but a highly detailed description of him, and a profile name he chose for himself.

“Grill Master? For real?” I drawled. “If the one thing he chooses to highlight about himself is his talent for flipping burgers, I’m going to have to pass. If I’m paying for jizz, I want to get my money’s worth.”

And the jizz didn’t come cheap. I promised myself I’d go for the premium. The one that cost four-figures. My child deserved the very best.

“The man is 6’3” with dimples. In the staff notes, they said he looks like young Sean Connery,” Persy exclaimed.

“What about this one?” Sailor pointed at another profile. “Multi-ethnic. Tall. Athletic. Crazy high IQ. Best friends with his mom.”

I grabbed the phone from her, frowning. “Yeah. His blood type is AB negative, which means if god forbid something happens, it’d be a bitch to find blood donations for my child. He also calls himself Come Together. I mean, can it be any more ironic? Literally, he was the only bastard that came when creating our hypothetical baby.”

“All right, Grumpy Pants. Someone walked into this whole experience with some prejudice.” Sailor curved an eyebrow.

“Oh, you’ll find him, Belly-Belle. I promise.” Persy brushed my hair lovingly while Ash shook her head, still scrolling on my phone.

We went through profiles for about forty more minutes before we found the perfect match. He called himself Friendly Front Runner, was 6’1”, East Asian, with a master’s degree in political science and public policy. His dream lunch would be with Nikola Tesla, and his profile seemed engaging, fun, and intelligent without sounding like he was trying too hard.

“The guy’s perfect.” Sailor smacked her hand on the coffee table she was sitting on. “Honestly, I’d get knocked up by him if I had the chance.”

“Whatever happened to not wanting another child?” Persy teased, braiding my hair.

Sailor held her hands up. “I’m just trying to get our girl here to agree on a donor before all of our eggs die of old age.”

“There’s a limited number of vials for this guy, so you need to be quick about it,” Ash warned, flipping through his entire history on my phone.

I knew she was right. I also knew that Friendly Front Runner was probably the best option out there. He seemed genuinely funny and engaging. Down to earth and bright. And yet … I couldn’t get excited about choosing him as the father of my child.

I mean, what did I really know about this guy, other than his credentials and the things he would probably tell me on a first date?

Was he kind to strangers?

Did he chew super loudly?

Did he think pineapple pizza was an acceptable dish in civilized society?

There were so many makes-or-breaks that would remain a mystery to me.

And there was something else. Something I couldn’t stop thinking about, even though I knew it was a recipe for disaster.

Devon Whitehall’s suggestion.

“Oh-oh. We’re losing her again. I feel like I’m in a bad episode of Grey’s Anatomy.” Sailor threw a tempura shrimp into her mouth.

“They were all bad, and highly inaccurate, medically speaking,” Aisling chimed in.

“Belle.” Persy propped her chin on my shoulder, her baby blues shining full of concern. “Is everything okay?”

I put my wine glass down. “I forgot to mention there’s another option.”

Aisling slanted her head to the side. “You know God is not going to do you the same solid he did the Virgin Mary, right?”

“Duh. I’ve been such a bad Christian, I’ve got a better chance of banging a stork.” I rolled my eyes.

“What do you mean, then?” Sailor sat straighter, using the pad of her finger to swipe the remainder of her food from the container, putting it to her lips.

I toyed with a lock of my braided hair. I was in a pink satin pajama set that said You Look Like I Need a Drink.

“Devon Whitehall offered his services—and dick. He basically said he’d love to have an heir, but doesn’t want to get married. In return, he’d help me out financially and co-parent. That’s so cringe, right?”

“Holy shit.” Sailor slapped a hand over her mouth. “Isn’t he, like, a duke?”

“A marquess,” I corrected, as if I had any idea what that meant. “I don’t think he is. Not yet, anyway.”

“What he is is a millionaire, smart, and a study in hotness. What are you doing sifting through college students’ profiles when an offer like that is on the table?” Aisling demanded. “It’s unlike you, Belle. You’re usually the street smart one.”

True, I wanted to say. And because I’m smart, I know better than to give a man like Devon the keys to my life.

“Plus, you have a real chance here to give your baby a father figure,” Persy added.

“It’s not that simple.” I scowled, dropping my takeout box on the coffee table by Sailor. “The whole exercise of having a kid on my own is to ensure no one will butt into my business and tell me how to raise my child.”

“Would a second opinion about things every now and then really be so horrible?” Aisling asked quietly. “Children are hard work. You’ll be needing all the help you can get.”

“And anyway,” Persy swooped in, “parenthood is like an office job. Those who’ve been in it for longer are now your superiors. You’re going to be given unsolicited opinions whether you want them or not. I mean, Mom didn’t let me take Astor out for a walk in the park the entire winter because she thought he’d get pneumonia.”

“It’s easy for you to say.” I took another sip of my wine. “You’re all in relationships with men who are certifiable when it comes to you. Of course for you, it was an easy decision to pop a few kids out. I don’t know Devon, Devon doesn’t know me, and I’m not hot on the idea of a stranger with money and a questionable rep calling the shots when it comes to my future child.”

But inside, I was already seeing dollar signs and posh private schools for my kid. I’d sworn off men for a good reason. But I could still ride Devon’s dick—and credit card—while keeping him at arm’s length.

“Sorry, Belle, did you start talking out of your ass?” Sailor pretended to lean down to my behind, as if to check her theory. “What shots? Don’t pretend you’ll be into homeschooling or raising your child vegan or pagan. You’re going to raise this child like any other ordinary kid in America. Only with more money and a daddy whose accent makes women weak in the knees.”

“What if we have a falling out?” I challenged.

“Gimmie a break.” Sailor snorted, picking up the empty takeout containers and taking them to the kitchenette. “The man made a fortune making people like him while simultaneously screwing them over. He is a seasoned diplomat. Why would you have a falling out?”

“But I’ll be breaking the pact,” I said finally.

Sailor dropped the takeout containers into my trash can while Aisling rinsed the wine glasses in the sink. Persy stayed by my side.

My sister murmured into my ear. “Love stories are not like musicals. You don’t need to have a perfectly constructed beginning, middle, and end to make them work. Sometimes love starts off from the middle. Sometimes it even starts from the end.”

“I’m not like you.” I turned to look at her, dropping my voice so no one would hear us. “Listen, Pers, I—”

I was going to say I was never going to get married, fall in love, live the uninspiring, white picket fence dream, when my sister pressed a finger to my lips, shaking her head solemnly.

“Don’t say what you’re about to say. You can, and you will. Nothing is stronger than love. Not even hate. Not even death.”

My sister was wrong, but I didn’t tell her that.

Death was stronger than anything.

It had been my path to deliverance, and rebirth.

My soul had been its price.

That, and any hope of love.

Later that evening, while in bed, I got bored and texted Devon. I still had his phone number from three years ago, when I rode his face on my way to Orgasmville before kicking him out.

Belle: why do you want a child anyway?

He answered after twenty minutes. Probably busy entertaining one of his toothpick-legged, PhD-holding female friends.

Devon: is this the national census?

Bastard either deleted my number or never saved it in the first place. That definitely brought me down a couple notches ego-wise.

Belle: it’s Belle. Answer the question.

Devon: why must there be a devious reason behind my desire for an heir?

Belle: because you’re smart, and I don’t trust smart people.

Devon: putting your trust in stupid people is worse. Smart people are, at the very least, highly predictable.

Belle: all I know about you is that you are a royal. And rich.

Devon: that’s enough for most women to offer their complete submission to me.

Belle: I’m not most women, Devon. Even your closest friends don’t know shit about your ass. If we do this, and I’m not saying we will, I don’t want to be in the dark.

He kept me waiting for a few minutes. I wondered if it was because he wanted to make a point—that he wasn’t dropping whatever he was doing tonight to converse with me—or because he really was with another woman. I didn’t care if he was currently having sex with the entire team of the Miami Heat Dancers. Or if he was at Sam Brennan’s joint, drinking and smoking himself to an early grave and questionable sperm count.

Devon: you won’t be in the dark. I’d ravish you in full daylight.

I flipped over to my belly on the mattress. My fingers flew over my screen.

Devon: who wouldn’t want this? <image attached>

I thought, for sure, the stuffy stuck up sent me a dick pic. But when I opened the image, it was a picture of a baby with a shock of white-blond hair and piercing blue eyes in a full sailor’s costume. The outfit looked like a dress, and the baby was so cherubic, I wanted to bite his soft thigh rolls.

Belle: SHUT THE FUCK UP.

There was no reply. Dammit, he was so literal.

Belle: is that you?

Devon: it’s me.

He was the cutest baby in the world, that was for damn sure. But for some reason, my mentally challenged self couldn’t pay him this simple compliment.

Belle: blue and white are not your colors, bro. And that dress makes your ankles look huge.

I knew he was laughing, just as I knew he wasn’t going to write LOL. Devon was above abbreviations and acronyms. He once threw a bar of soap at Hunter when he used the word “rando” to refer to a stranger, and insisted he scrub his mouth with it, since he sullied up the Queen’s English.

Devon: I’ve refreshed my cardio schedule since. Fencing, mainly.

Belle: why do you want to have a child? I insisted, asking again.

Devon: I need someone to inherit all I’ll leave behind.

Belle: ever heard of charity?

Devon: sounds like a stripper.

Belle: ha ha. For real now.

Devon: charity begins at home. Ask Dickens.

Belle: pretty sure he’s a little too dead to answer. Is that what it’s all about? The money?

I had no idea at what point I grew a conscience, but there we were. What right did I have to judge him when I was (maybe) entering this arrangement for his dough and to be invited to royal weddings?

Devon: no. In addition, I rather enjoy children. I think they’re entertaining, insightful, and generally more cultured than most grown-ups.

Belle: if we do this (and again, I’M NOT SAYING WE WILL), I’d never sleep with you after we conceive. I’d never date you, never marry you, never give you all the things men want from the mothers of their children.

I was getting kind of into the idea of doing this with him. The money was a huge factor, but I also liked that he was not a gray avatar in a sea of sperm bank donors. I had points of reference I could later compare to my future baby. I knew he was a gifted fencer, that he found money talk tacky, and was a grammar Nazi. I knew he was appalled by American football and smitten with world history. That he was a skier and owned an Aga and old Barbour jackets. I knew how he smelled after sex. The sweaty masculinity, the expensive leather and sandalwood of him.

And I knew he owed me exactly nothing and could have a child with any other woman on the East Coast. Most would fall at his feet just for a chance.

Devon: understood and underrated. Having sex with the same person for longer than five months is daunting to all parties involved.

Who talked like that? Like, who?

Belle: you’re really old.

Devon: you’re filibustering.

Belle: people would think you’re a creep if you get me pregnant.

Devon: perhaps, but I wouldn’t be the creepiest royal, so they’d get over it quickly.

Belle: so how do you see this going down?

Belle: (IF WE DO THIS, AND I’M NOT SAYING WE WILL).

Devon: we could start this month. I have some business to conduct in England, but I should be free going forward. Just call when it’s time.

Belle: I’ll need to see an STD test to know you’re clean.

Devon: I’ll fax it over.

Fax. The man still used a fax machine. He was so ancient, I was surprised he didn’t send me the results via carrier pigeon.

Devon: I’ll draft a contract in which we settle things such as custody, financials, and so forth. I’d require a certain amount of involvement to ensure the contract is satisfactory to both parties.

Belle: we’re really doing this, aren’t we?

Devon: why not?

Belle: well, let’s see …

Belle: BECAUSE IT’S CRAZY?

Devon: not half as crazy as getting pregnant by a faceless stranger, and yet people do that all the time. Evolution, darling. At the end of the day, we’re nothing but glorified monkeys trying to ensure our footprint in this world is not forgotten.

Belle: did you just call me a monkey? Strong romance game, Whitehall.

He didn’t reply. Maybe Devon wasn’t so old as much as I felt so young in comparison to him.

Belle: one more question.

Devon: yes?

Belle: what’s your favorite animal?

I thought he would for sure say a dolphin or a lion. Something corny and predictable.

Devon: pink handfish.

Oh, awesome. More weird shit.

Belle: why?

Devon: they look like drunk football hooligans trying to pick a fight at a bar. And their hands are eerie. Their flaws demand compassion.

Belle: you’re weird.

Devon: true, but you are interested, darling.