Page 77 of Parker

“Yes, the baby is his. We had a night together at Christmastime. A final farewell.”

She scoffs. “Farewell. He’s bloody left a baby in your belly. That’s not what I call a final fuck for closure.”

Tears prick my eyes. “Soph,” I say, “I’m scared enough as it is. No other pregnancy has ever gotten this far. And I’m not even with the father. Please don’t give me a hard time. I didn’t know what to do.”

She steps forward, wrapping me in her arms.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into my hair. “It was the shock. I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” I whisper back through tears.

Chapter thirty-five

Parker Fashion House, Glasgow

Joel

“Is that not your ex-wife?” Cole says as my eyes follow Nicky back to her seat. She looks stunning in her long dress with her curls flowing down her back. Her skin glows. She looks radiant.

I’d watched her leave in a hurry ten minutes ago, Sophie close behind. It took all my willpower not to run after her.

Cole taps my shoulder. “Isn’t it?” he prompts.

“My mother invited her,” I explain. “Some of her pieces are being featured during the show. Again, my mother’s idea.”

“Has she remarried?” he asks.

Surprised, I stare at him for a moment, thrown by the question. “No, why?”

He shrugs. “No reason. I just wondered,” he mumbles, looking away. “How’s the bit of skirt you’ve been dating? Keep seeing you online with her. Good-looking girl, not unlike your ex-missus.”

My skin crawls at his phrasing, but I can’t kid myself that most people who know me will have come to the same conclusion. Ebony is Nicky’s physical replacement.

“It’s finished,” I say flatly. And it is.

She was meant to accompany me today, but when mother told me she’d invited Nicky, I ended it. No warnings. No soft landings. I told her our arrangement was off. I was done pretending. Ebony didn’t take it well. The pout turned into another fight.

But the truth is, it had been coming since the hotel.

That night — the one-bedroom suite, the roses, the fucking chocolates — I should’ve said something then. Instead, I let her play the game. Told myself it didn’t matter. That it was just optics. I didn’t care.

But I did.

She made a move that night after dinner. Slid into the bed wearing nothing but perfume and confidence. Pressed herself against me like it was inevitable.

“I can make you forget her,” she whispered, lips grazing my neck.

I pulled away. Sat up. Told her to get dressed and sleep on the couch like she said she would.

She didn’t. She stayed in bed, but I slept on the couch.

The next morning, she pretended it hadn’t happened. Appearing back at the fashion house, smiling and talking about the next event we’d be seen at together. I said nothing. Let it sit between us like a loaded gun, ready to fire.

Then there was the charity dinner a few nights later. She drank too much. Laughed too loudly. Told the finance director’s wife that she was “basically family now.” I watched her from across the table and felt... nothing. Just a cold, crawling sense of shame.

That’s when I knew I couldn’t keep doing this.

I had to end it.