Chapter 68 68
Kate's POV
Dinner dragged on too long. The wine flowed nonstop, and Andrew drank the most. Elliot made sure his glass was never empty for a second.
Every time Andrew set it down on the table, Elliot refilled it with a calm smile, talking to him about business, the company, how he saw the Lisbon branch growing. They got along too well. Andrew laughed loud, relaxed, proud of his work—he always loved praise, thrived on recognition. Emma chimed in with light comments, clearly enjoying the vibe. I watched the whole thing with this heavy feeling in my chest. Elliot was playing his part perfectly. Too perfectly. The polite, interested, respectful young guy—damn, he could've won an Oscar.
And Andrew, completely clueless, treated him like family.
Why were they acting so close? Why did they click so easily when they'd barely spent time together?
I couldn't step in. Couldn't say "that's enough." Couldn't take the bottle away. Just keep it together, touch my belly when the baby kicked, and pretend this was a nice evening among acquaintances.
When dinner finally ended, Emma and Elliot insisted on doing the dishes. Andrew was already talking louder than usual, that messy cheerfulness he got when he'd had too much. I cleared the table in silence. From the kitchen I could hear the water running and their voices mixing. Elliot's low laugh. He was controlling the scene even from in there.
Goodbyes were quick.
"I really hope we see each other again while I'm in town, Elliot." Andrew hugged him with genuine warmth, thanking him for coming.
Emma was sweet, promising we'd do dinner again soon. I just wanted them gone.
"Thank you so much for having us—your house is amazing. And Mrs. Ellis, your cooking is out of this world. Seriously, best meal I've ever had."
Elliot was the last to come over. He pulled out his phone like it was the most natural thing.
"Can I get your number?" he asked. "So I don't always have to go through Andrew if I want to reach you, Mrs. Ellis."
Andrew was right beside me. Emma watched with a smile. I had no way out. I gave it to him. He typed it in slowly, eyes never leaving mine. Then he hugged me. Longer than necessary. His hand slid down to my lower back, close to my belly, lingering a second too long.
Shit. My body shivered.
He kissed my cheek—slow—and whispered against my ear: "You better meet me tonight, or I won't behave."
It wasn't a joke. It was a warning. A chill ran up my spine. I pulled back slowly, forcing a smile.
I closed the door once they left. Andrew said it had been a great night. Half an hour later he was in the shower, singing some nonsense. Then he collapsed into bed without even turning off the light. Out cold in seconds.
I couldn't sleep.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
"3 a.m. At the door. Come out."
I didn't reply. Turned the screen off, flipped the phone face down. Lay still, listening to Andrew's breathing, trying to calm down. But an hour later it buzzed again.
"Don't play with me."
I typed fast, before I could talk myself out of it.
"I'm not coming out. Don't message me again."
His reply was instant.
"Yes, you are."
I stared at the screen, heart pounding. Typed again.
"No. This is over. Respect my home."
It took him a few seconds.
"Respect what we had. It's always been easy for you to push me aside—have you ever stopped to think how I felt? You're selfish, you know it. Time to stop thinking only about yourself."
Anger flared. I wrote back.
"What happened was a mistake—that's not selfish, that's ending things. Why can't you accept it?"
This time his reply was longer.
"Mistake was pretending at dinner that you're some untouchable older woman. I never saw you as a mother. Never. Not when you spread your legs for me in your own house. Even less when you begged me not to stop. Or when you rode me like you were losing your mind."
I froze.
The next message came before I could react.
"There's nothing maternal about the woman who watched me while I made her moan against the wall. Nothing maternal about the one clinging to my shoulders, saying my name like it hurt. You know damn well I always wanted you, and it was never maternal—it was fire, ashes, memories, wounds, scars. It was everything."
The air caught in my chest.
"I watched you tonight touching your belly like you're untouchable. And all I could remember was how you arched it when you were under me. You're not mature. You're not fragile. You're pure body, and you know it. That pregnancy doesn't dim you. It makes you more intense. More beautiful. More real."
I swallowed hard.
Another message.
"I know how you sound when you lose control. I know how you squeeze your thighs. I know how you looked at me when you wanted more. Is that maternal?"
Heat rushed to my face. I wanted to delete the chat. I didn't.
"You looked incredible tonight. That dress hugging your curves, the way you moved slow. And yeah, when you touched your belly. It didn't look tender. It looked like restrained desire."
My fingers shook over the phone.
"I remember every time you begged me not to stop. Every time you pulled me closer. Don't tell me that was a mistake. It wasn't a mistake when you bit my neck. It wasn't when you came with me inside you."
I closed my eyes for a second.
I typed.
"I'm not yours. Don't ever say that again."
His reply came in seconds.
"You were when you opened the door for me. You were when you looked for me across the room. You were when you trembled before touching me."
Anger surged.
"Don't talk to me like that again."
"Then stop pretending I'm just a kid and you're some respectable mother. No woman who moved like that on me can hide behind a pregnancy."
My heart was hammering.
"Come out at 3. I won't touch you if you don't want me to. Just look me in the eye and tell me none of it was real, that you've forgotten, that I'm a kid... that you see me like a son. Then I'll leave Lisbon and your life for good. That simple—if you're telling the truth."
I stared at the screen, breathing fast.
"Say it to my face. Tell me you don't remember how I made you feel."
The clock kept ticking.
And I hated that my body did remember.
It was one a.m.
I tried to lie down. Couldn't. Got up and went to the living room. Sat on the couch with my legs tucked under me, breathing slow. I hated every word he'd written. Hated that he knew exactly where to hit. Hated how precisely he described my body. Hated that he made me feel seen.
The phone buzzed again.
"If you don't come down, tomorrow I'll tell him everything."
The blood drained from my face.
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
It was almost two.
The silence in the house had become unbearable. Not because of noise, but because of what it made me think. The phone sat on the coffee table like it weighed more than it should. I hadn't touched it again, but I knew every word. Didn't need to reread them. They'd stuck under my skin.
I got up and went to the bathroom.
Turned on the light and looked at myself. Hair messy, falling over my shoulders in that careless way that used to feel comfortable. I pulled it into a high ponytail. Didn't like it. Let it down again. Swept it to one side, exposing more of my neck. I didn't know why I was doing it. Leaned over the sink and turned on the faucet just to keep my hands busy.
Brushed my teeth slowly. Didn't need to. No one was getting that close. Spit, rinsed. Then I took the moisturizer and smoothed it over my face, down my neck, slower than usual. My fingers drifted a little lower before I stopped.
The pajamas hugged my round belly. I adjusted the fabric without thinking, smoothing it over my skin. The gesture was automatic. Then I looked at myself again.
I didn't look like a scared woman.
I looked like a woman who was waiting.
I froze.
I was getting ready.
For him.
I gripped the sink and closed my eyes.
It was ridiculous.
It was dangerous.
It was humiliating.
And still, my body wasn't reacting like he was a threat. It was reacting like it remembered something I'd tried to bury. Not his words. Not the messages. What happened between us when no one else was watching. The way he made me forget everything for a few minutes. The way my body responded before my mind could catch up.
I opened my eyes again.
I hated myself for recognizing it.
By two-thirty the silence was unbearable.
The phone buzzed once more.
"I'm downstairs."
I stood still.
"I see the living room light."
I paced. Didn't want to open the door. Didn't want to see him. But I also didn't want to find out what he'd do if I didn't.
Another message.
"I can see your shadow moving. Open the door already."
I took a deep breath. My palms were sweaty. I walked to the door, heart racing. Glanced toward the bedroom one last time. Andrew hadn't stirred.
I put my hand on the knob.
Turned it slowly.
Opened it just a few inches.
And there he was. In the dark hallway. Looking at me like he knew that even if I said no, I'd always open the door.