The Secret Pregnancy of the Billionaire's Ex-Wife

"You're more than that," I said firmly. "You're smart and brave and loyal. You're the
girl who stood up for a stranger in the library when no one else would."
She looked at me, confusion crossing her face. "You remember that?
"Of course I do."
Her eyes softened, and for a moment, I thought maybe-just maybe she was seeing me. Really seeing me, for the first time. But

then she slumped against my shoulder, the alcohol finally taking its toll.
"I should get you home," I said, helping her stand.
She mumbled something incoherent as I guided her to my car. By the time we reached her apartment, she was barely conscious.
I half-carried her inside, found her bedroom, and gently laid her on the bed.
As I pulled a blanket over her, words I'd kept locked away for years suddenly spilled out.
"You still have me," I whispered. "I'll never leave you, Angela. I've loved you since
I first saw you in that library. I've loved you every day since."
She didn't respond, already lost to sleep or unconsciousness.
I sat on the edge of her bed, watching her breathe, fighting an internal battle I was ashamed to acknowledge. I reached out,
gently stroking her cheek with my fingertips. Her eyelashes fluttered slightly, a temptation too great to resist.
I leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, then briefly, lightly touched my lips to hers. The sweet, alcohol-tinged
warmth of her breath nearly broke my control.
Part of me-a dark, desperate part I usually kept buried-wanted to stay, to claim what Sean had carelessly overlooked. But that
wasn't love. That was possession, obsession.
I loved Angela. I wanted her heart, not just her body. Not like this.
I stood up, tucking the blanket around her shoulders. Before I left, I leaned down and whispered in her ear, "If I had met you first,
would you have loved me instead?"

She didn't answer. She never heard me ask. And I never got my answer.
Not that night, anyway.