When She Needs Them Most
: Prologue

Tossing my phone down on the counter, I bury my face in my hands. That lawyer called again while I was puking my guts up, and the thought makes my stomach roll after it was just settling down. My eyes slide to the bathroom door, and I debate if this is the real deal. It’s hard to believe there could be anything left to throw up.

Nausea can be bad during the first trimester, but I just made it into the second. It’s supposed to be getting better or leveling out. It’s not, and that seems fitting for how my life is going.

Bringing a hand to my stomach, I slide it over my shirt, mentally willing the churning to settle down. I’m sure the baby isn’t any happier with this turn of events. I’ve barely managed to keep any food down during the last two months. And I’m pretty sure the anxiety and stress aren’t helping anything.

All of this would be exponentially easier to handle with a partner at my side, but I’ve already accepted that Clark doesn’t want any part of fatherhood. Thinking about my ex makes me feel some ridiculous combination of hurt and furious, so I do my best not to let myself focus on him.

Clark broke up with me out of the blue. I didn’t see it coming at all, which makes the emotions burn even worse, especially since he’s technically half responsible for the baby I’m busy baking. I’ve made every attempt possible to let him know I’m pregnant, but after several weeks of calling and texting…it finally dawned on me.

He doesn’t care.

Or if he does, he’s got a unique way of showing it.

That’s the whole reason I’ve been dodging Mr. Smith.

Clark having a lawyer reach out to me, rather than doing it himself, makes me hella uncomfortable, and I don’t think I’m overreacting by avoiding the man until I know what he wants. He could be about to serve me with papers saying Clark wants to sue for custody or maybe that he wants to sign his rights away.

We were both in that bed when the baby was created, but since my birth control failed, it all falls on me. I had no idea that the antibiotics they gave me after having my wisdom teeth removed could interfere with the efficacy of my birth control. If I had, I would have been a hell of a lot more vigilant.

I bend in half, and my forehead rolls around the cool countertop of my kitchen island.

It’s emotionally complicated.

For weeks I wanted to hear something, anything, from Clark, but once the lawyer started calling, I realized how much better the silence had been.

A loud, echoing knock fills the air, and I twist toward my front door.

I’m not expecting anyone.

As a single female omega, safety is always a concern, but I push myself off my barstool and creep across the tile in my socks. My hands come to rest on the door as I peek out the peephole, but my weight makes the door jostle ever so slightly.

“Miss Baxter?” a man in a suit calls through the closed door. “Chelsea Baxter? Please, it’s urgent that I speak with you.”

I exhale heavily and move to open the door but leave the chain locked. The door only opens two or three inches, and I eye the man suspiciously. “Who are you?”

“My name is Leon Smith. I represent the late Clark Raynor. I’ve been attempting to reach you for over a week.” He twists his hand sideways through the opening in the door, holding out a card.

It takes several seconds of slow blinking at his card for his words to catch up in my mind.

“D-Did you just say Clark is dead?” I ask, ripping the card from his fingers.

“You didn’t hear the news…” Mr. Smith curses under his breath, bringing a hand up to swipe over his face. “I’m sorry. I assumed you’d been notified.”

Notified by who? I want to scoff, but no words come out as my shoulder falls against the wall next to my front door.

The avalanche of horrible things I’ve said and thought come rushing back all at once. My feelings were hurt, and I thought Clark was blowing me off because he didn’t want to deal with the hassle of facing me.

“What happened?” I ask in a daze.

“Mr. Raynor had a brain tumor, but he was receiving treatment. It was an aneurysm.” Mr. Smith shoves a tissue through the two-inch gap under the chain lock. “He didn’t suffer. It was very quick. May I come in?”

My head shakes as tears burn my eyes.

I’m still so confused.

Why wouldn’t he tell me that he was sick?

I spent the last few months hating him. I’ve thought and said some pretty awful things that I’ll never be able to take back.

My hand flies to my mouth, and I dart across the room, aiming for the trash can in the kitchen.

I’m going to be sick.