Page 112 of Made for Wilde
Understanding dawns in his eyes like a cold sunrise.
The bouquet of yellow roses slips from his fingers and hits the linoleum floor with a soft thud that echoes like thunder in the silent hallway.
When Dad finally speaks again, his voice is so quiet I can barely hear it.
“Koda, are you the father of Charlotte’s baby?”
TWENTY-THREE
KODA
Time stops completelyand the hallway narrows to a tunnel where only Jason exists.
I watch as his face transforms before my eyes, dark and unstoppable, like a storm cloud gathering strength. He looks back and forth from Charlotte’s pregnant belly to my face as he makes the connection I’ve dreaded for months.
The connection that’s going to destroy everything.
When Jason finally speaks, his voice is so quiet I can barely hear it.
“Koda, are you the father of Charlotte’s baby?”
The question I’ve dreaded for months now demands an answer.
I could lie. Could try to talk my way out of this moment, buy time to explain, find some way to make this less catastrophic.
But the time for hiding is over.
I’ve lived with this secret burning a hole in my chest for too long. The weight of the deception has been eating me alive, and now it’s time to face the consequences.
I swallow hard, my mouth desert-dry as I meet Jason’s eyes unflinchingly.
“Yes.”
For a heartbeat, nothing happens.
Jason stands perfectly still and processes my admission like his brain refuses to accept what his ears just heard. I see a parade of emotions march across his face in quick succession.
Disbelief first. His eyebrows pull together, his mouth opens slightly. He’s a man trying to solve an impossible equation, searching for some other explanation that makes sense.
Then hurt. His face crumples for just a second, vulnerable in a way I’ve only seen once before—the day his mother died. His shoulders drop. His whole body seems to shrink.
Betrayal follows fast. His jaw clenches. The hurt hardens into something uglier, more jagged. His hands curl into fists at his sides.
And finally, rage.
Pure, unchecked rage that transforms his familiar features into something completely unrecognizable. His face flushes dark red. The muscles in his neck stand out like cords. His eyes go flat and cold.
“Dad, please—” Charlotte starts to say.
In that split second before impact, I see his arm pulling back.
My body recognizes the telegraph, the shift of weight, the rotation of his hips. Muscle memory kicks in. Years of boxing training screams at me to slip the punch, to move my head, to protect myself.
I don’t.
I let it come.
Jason’s fist connects with my jaw so hard that it snaps my head sideways.
