She went pale. “I didn’t—”
Before she could finish, he grabbed her chin, rough and sharp. His thumb and middle finger pinched her jaw while his index finger skimmed
the curve of her throat.
“You didn’t?” he sneered. “Then why are you still wearing THIS?”
Lucia stiffened. She glanced down—still in last night’s black lace nightgown.
The sheer fabric clung to her skin like glass on porcelain.
From where he stood, the lace barely covered a thing.
His throat bobbed.
‘Especially those breasts—Jared, how do you resist squeezing them?’
The crude message from his group chat flashed in his mind, and his eyes darkened.
He shoved her back and looked away, jaw clenched.
“Too bad it won’t go your way. The baby’s already handled. Get dressed—we’re going out.”
And just like that, he walked off, leaving her stunned.
‘Handled? The baby?’
Thirty minutes later, the black Maybach rolled to a stop.
Lucia glanced out the window—and froze.
“Why did you bring me to a hospital?”
