Page 121 of Breeding Her: The Red Flag Edition
I sighed and stood. I was sure that once she read the section on financial compensation, she’d settle down.
Chapter 20
Lucia
My fingers trembled as I flicked through a page of the prenup. I could gauge enough, even without being fluent in legal jargon. He smiled at me when I glanced his way.
How stupid did he think I was?
“You call this a nuclear family for a child?” I asked, holding the paper by the corner as if it were diseased.
“I think it’s reasonable—”
“Heavily in favour of you.”
“Well, yes—”
“I refuse,” I cut him off again.
“I’ll admit I was a little rash initially.”
I scoffed, but he continued.
“But it changes nothing. You’re carrying my child, and I will take whatever action is necessary to secure him or her—with or without you.”
I gasped at the implication of his words before hardening my heart.
“If I decided to run away and hide, you wouldn’t find me or my child. Being in the foster care system teaches you how to hide, beg, and survive. You and your money are nothing.”
“There isn’t a single stone I’d leave unturned to hunt you down.”
I needed to nip this in the bud.
I sighed.
“Okay… for the well-being of our child,” I murmured. “But if you—”
“I swear. I won’t release any of the footage, and since you’re being reasonable, I’ll delete them all in good faith.”
Yes, you do that, you dumb dickhead.
“Thank you,” I whispered, sniffing a few times for effect.
He moved closer, resting an arm across my shoulders.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured, his hand rubbing slow circles on my back.
I leaned into him, mentally preparing everything I needed to do to disappear from London.
?? ?? ??
I dialled in sick with rehearsed calm. “Flu,” I lied, voice steady, no tremor. Evelyn accepted it, sympathetic and easily distracted. There was no time to feel guilt.
Back at my flat, I moved with a surgeon’s efficiency. My suitcases were already packed—everything I owned reduced to two cases.
I pulled the SIM from my phone and slid it into my old phone I’d kept “just in case.” The screen lit up like a forgotten toy. I typed a message I’d composed twice before: a simple test that would convince anyone checking that I was elsewhere. Then I boxed the phone and SIM in a used envelope and walked two blocks to the post office.
It would be shipped to Spain. To a mobile repair shop that shared a courtyard with housing units. Hopefully, the misdirection would throw the dickhead off my real location.
