The Trouble With Him: A Secret Pregnancy Romance (The Forbidden Love 3)

I remove my heels, allowing my bare feet to walk against the porcelain tiles. With each step I take, my mouth begins to dry, and my breathing falters. I force myself to take a deep breath until the sound of moaning catches my attention.

My stomach hardens, footsteps dragging as my mind conjures up all these scenarios. This is it—he’s fucking some other woman who is probably younger than me too.

Without another thought, I open the door to see Olivier in bed, on all fours, with an unknown man behind him.

Letting out a loud gasp, I ignore my weakened muscles and heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Quickly, I turn around in a panicked rush, scurrying out of the room and pretending I didn’t just see my boyfriend being fucked by another man.

The quick steps become too much, my feet stumbling as I trip over and fall onto my arm. As I lay on the ground, the pain soars through me, making it unbearable to move my wrist.

“Ava, it’s not what you think!” Olivier rushes out of the room, now dressed in a pair of boxers.

I crawl along the ground until he tries to help me up. With my wrist and ego bruised, I still manage to swat his hand out of the way.

“Not what I think?” I almost cry while glaring at him. “I don’t know how else to interpret it besides the fact that another guy’s dick was inside your ass!”

The other guy, a model from the fashion industry, quickly places his clothes on and joins us. I wasn’t wrong about the age. The guy is much younger.

Olivier runs his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, you weren’t meant to come home tonight.”

I gather the strength to stand up without applying pressure to my wrist. Desperate to alleviate the pain, I head toward the kitchen and retrieve a cold pack from the freezer. Slowly, I apply it onto my wrist, willing the swelling to subside, then search for a bandage.

Olivier follows me to the kitchen, pacing the area between us while he runs his hands through his messy blond hair.

“So, if I didn’t come home, how long were you going to keep up this charade?” I beg of him to answer. “It explains why you haven’t wanted to touch me.”

“Ava, I still love you.”

“You love my money, my family’s name. But don’t you dare say you love me,” I fume, releasing my anger toward him. “Love is a powerful feeling, Olivier. I suggest you look deep inside and admit to yourself who you really are and stop pretending. As for me, I’m going to leave. I want you out by tomorrow.”

Unable to think straight, I wrap my wrist up with the bandage. I take my purse, only for Olivier to call out, “Ava, please wait!”

My hand rests on the doorknob, but I don’t turn around. Olivier doesn’t deserve another second of my time. He gave up that privilege the moment he chose to betray me and with another man, of all people.

I open the door, taking a step out, then close it behind me. It’s best I don’t hover, quickly making my way to the elevator. Inside the confined space, I bow my head with a hitched chest until a loud sob escapes me. My hands clutch onto my stomach as the uncontrolled tears onset a wave of nausea. When the door pings open, my hand instantly covers my mouth as I begin to dry heave.

My breaths come hard and fast, but somewhere amid this breakdown, I realize I am all alone with nowhere to go. Miles away, across the other side of the country, my family celebrates ringing in the new year. All my friends are busy with events I declined because Miami was more important. My appearance was a bust, bumped for a hotter and younger influencer.

And my live-in boyfriend—is gay.

The loneliness is palpable.

The tabloids will have a field day with how miserable my life turned out to be. I can see the headline already—Daughter of Mogul Lex Edwards Falls from Fame.

There is no way to spin anything into a positive tonight.

So, I do the only thing to make it all go away and forget I even exist—I hit up the closest bar with the intent to make my life one giant blur.

Two

Ava

Out of every decent bar within walking distance of my building, I end up at some Irish pub called Alistair’s.

I’ve never heard nor seen the place in the entire time I’ve lived in the city, though I was never one to frequent such establishments. I prefer high-end bars with a designer dress code and men who wear suits.

Alistair’s is anything but high-class. The crowd is less than desirable, and my Gucci gold dress stands out amongst the denim worn by the lively patrons.

Everything inside the quaint space is made from heavy wood with splashes of green to tie in the Irish theme. There’s a wall-mounted flat-screen television over the bar, next to black-and-white photographs of random people.