My hands held the wheel in a vise-grip, and my foot felt heavy on the gas. I was conscious not to speed, not to be reckless as we drove toward the cliffside home. If my driving reflected a lack of urgency, a sense of calm, it might translate to my wife and me. But Jamie was practically vibrating in the seat beside me, nerves and apprehension coming off her in waves. And I felt sick to my stomach. Because this encounter, this confrontation, was going to be brutal. It was going to change our lives, one way or another.

Neither of us spoke, neither of us articulated what that article could mean for us. And for the baby. After my initial suspicions about its paternity, I had put the child—and its parents—out of my mind. Freya had provided the dated ultrasound image, and it had looked authentic. But it could easily have been doctored with some Wite-Out and a scanner. I had wanted so badly to believe its veracity, been desperate to disconnect from that toxic couple and put the night of the swap behind us. But if Max could not father children . . .

Despite our struggles, I still wanted to be a dad. Jamie may have grieved longer and more openly, but I still ached for a child. I’d always envisioned myself with a little girl on my shoulders, tossing a baseball with my son. But not this way. Please, God, not this way.

Freya had charmed me at first, I’d been a pawn to her beauty and sex appeal, but now I saw through it. She was manipulative, even scheming. She got off on playing with people. I’d watched my wife careen from jubilance to despair and back to restrained delight as Freya embraced her, dumped her, then lured her back in. I should have been angry at Max for sleeping with my wife, but he was just Freya’s puppet. That night was all her doing.

Had Freya wanted to get pregnant? Had she orchestrated the couples’ swap so she could conceive? She wasn’t the maternal type, didn’t seem to have a clue about kids. But this pregnancy had reignited her Instagram career. And got her so much attention—from Jamie, Max, even Low who, as far as I could see, was Freya’s volunteer PA. But would Freya go this far? Would she get pregnant with my baby just to fuck with us all? She’d have to be a psychopath.

And now, this woman I despised was carrying my child. I knew it in my gut, had known it all along if I’d been honest with myself. I glanced at my wife, and she looked back, meeting my eyes. She knew it, too.

What were we going to do about it?

Chapter 50

50

jamie