Confessions of a Pregnant Cinderella

The stylist and a couple of assistants had left after getting her ready for the wedding. Now a car was there to take her to the town hall, where Lazaro was apparently waiting.

The journey was short. Too short.

Only a few days ago she’d been angry and upset that Lazaro had all but abandoned her, but now she wanted to prolong the moments before she would see him again. She wasn’t ready for this gargantuan change. For giving her life up.

But then, she reminded herself, it wasn’t just about her. She didn’t have that luxury any more. And, anyway, she wasn’t her mother. She wanted to put down roots and give her child a solid, stable life.

The car pulled up outside the town hall, where an officious-looking woman was waiting, looking at her watch.

She opened the car door for Skye and helped her out, smiling. ‘I’m Sara, Lazaro’s assistant. I’ll be one of the witnesses.’

Skye got out, wobbly in the high heels. She drew a couple of glances from passing people with her bright red hair, but she was oblivious.

She said to Sara, ‘He’s waiting?’

The woman looked anxious. ‘Yes.’

Skye stood there for a moment in her fancy new clothes, with her make-up and hair done. Behind her was her old safe life. The one she knew. Ahead of her were uncharted waters. Life with a man who wanted her but who didn’t really care about her.

At that moment Skye felt something tiny inside her, like a very faint fluttering. She put her hand down over her belly, which seemed to be growing daily. She knew realistically that it couldn’t possibly be the baby’s movement that she could feel...not yet...but it reminded her, as if she needed reminding, of what was at stake.

She could only go forward.

* * *

Lazaro knew Skye had arrived when he felt a subtle shift in energy. The few people in the registrar’s office hushed. His skin prickled with awareness. He didn’t turn around to watch her walk towards him even though he wanted to.

She came alongside him and her scent reached him. Her scent. Light and delicate. Not the overpowering one she’d had on the other day.

The constriction inside him eased. A constriction that had been there since his fraught phone call with his half-brother the day before.

Gabriel Torres had said to Lazaro, ‘I underestimated you, Sanchez. No one was under any illusions about your motivation in marrying Leonora Flores, but the fact that you’re marrying the alleged mother of your child shows some balls. She couldn’t be bought off, then, no?’

Lazaro had been surprised at the depth of rage his brother’s words had aroused in him. He’d controlled himself with effort and said, ‘Not everyone and everything is for sale, Torres. My plans for the old market space in the centre of Madrid are infinitely better than yours. I actually care about this city. That’s all you need to worry about.’

Gabriel Torres had made a dismissive sound. ‘Please don’t insult me by pretending you have an altruistic streak. Your interest in this is purely personal and against me, because of this ridiculous claim that we’re related. It’s just a shame that Leonora had to become one of your casualties.’

Lazaro had counted to ten silently. ‘My claim is not spurious, Gabriel. I want nothing fro

m you or your family except acknowledgement. And do you expect me to believe that your own marriage to Leonora isn’t strategic? She’s a good woman, Gabriel—not someone you should be using as a pawn.’

Gabriel had responded tersely. ‘She’s where she belongs, that’s all that matters.’

Those words reverberated in Lazaro’s head now, as he looked at the woman who’d come to stand beside him. ‘She’s where she belongs, that’s all that matters.’ Strange and disconcerting how those words seemed to...fit.

Skye was looking straight ahead, and she was holding a posy of flowers that looked as if they’d come from a garden, tied with string. Her knuckles were white. In fact, she was pale.

Instinctively Lazaro found himself reaching out. He put his hand on Skye’s, willing her to look at him. After an infinitesimal moment she did, and a faint pink washed into her cheeks.

Lazaro raised a brow in silent question. After a moment she nodded her head. Her hair was sleek and pulled back into a low ponytail. She was taller in high heels, reaching almost to his shoulder. Make-up covered her freckles. Again. And once again Lazaro had the desire to muss her up.

The registrar started talking and Lazaro faced forward again, repeating his words where necessary, hearing Skye’s soft, clear voice do the same. Their witnesses were both employees of his.

He acknowledged how different this wedding was from the one he’d had planned with Leonora, which would have been in the cathedral in Madrid under the full glare of the world’s media. He realised that there was something about that scenario now that was distinctly unpalatable.

‘You are now married. You may kiss your wife, Señor Sanchez.’

Lazaro looked at Skye. His new wedding ring felt heavy on his finger. Solid. She wasn’t so pale any more. She looked up at him warily. He put a finger under her chin, tipping it up. He felt resistance and he frowned.