“You have 36 hours,” she said, pouring herself a glass of wine. “This house is mine now. I don’t want you or your…
bastards here.”
I felt like the air got sucked out of the room. “Veronica,” I whispered, “I’m due in two weeks. Where am I supposed to go?”
She shrugged, not even looking at me.
“Motel? Shelter? Not my problem.
But you’re not squatting in my home. This place is too big for your drama. And I won’t be raising someone else’s babies under my roof.”
I stood up, gripping the counter for balance.
“Dad would never have allowed this.”
My hands were trembling so badly that the glass of water on the counter rattled beside me. She turned and smiled, cold and perfect. “Dad’s not here,” she said flatly.
“I am.”
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