The Wrong Father's Baby

Summary

At my own birthday party, I finally crossed the line I’d been walking for ten years. I slept with Hudson, the boy I’d trailed after since we were in pigtails and grass-stained sneakers.

When I woke up, the air in the room felt like ice. He was already dressed, his eyes curdled with a cold, sharp disdain.

“That was a cheap move, Jennifer,” he said, his voice flat. “Lower than I thought even you would go.”

I looked at the glass of orange juice on the nightstand—the one he’d probably assumed I spiked, even though I hadn't touched it—and I said nothing. No explanations, no defense.