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He rolled his eyes. “Because I remember from your mother’s pregnancy that morning sickness doesn’t start until nine weeks. Arden’s only seven weeks along.”
“Damn.” I forced a laugh. “I guess we forgot you’d know exactly how pregnant she is. Though, to be frank, I’m surprised you remember which night you slept with her.”
He shot me a scathing look. “I am not that old or that forgetful, Corbett. It was the night of the fundraiser at Ivy Hall. When she stayed over at our house.”
“Right. Well, I guess it would be pretty memorable. I mean, how many times can a man say he slept with his son’s girlfriend?”
“You broke up with her,” he snapped. “She told me that night, in tears. I felt sorry for her—”
“Oh my god. Please don’t make it sound like you only slept with her because you felt sorry for her,” I said incredulously.
“I was trying to spare you the details since she’s going to be your wife.” He smirked. “But if you must know, no. I slept with her because she was a hot piece of ass, and she clearly wanted it.”
“Wanted it? Arden was upset! She wasn’t in her right mind. You had to know she’d been drinking.”
“She’d had one glass of wine with dinner.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Believe me, she was plenty sober for what we did.”
This entire conversation made me want to throw up, but I continued.
For Arden.
For me.
For Vaughn.
For the state of fucking Georgia and all the people who would be better off without this monster in a seat of power.
I stepped closer and growled at him, nearly slipping on a puddle of water left on the floor near a mop bucket. “And you couldn’t have at least used a fucking condom?”
He flicked a piece of lint off his sleeve. “I didn’t think about it till after. I assumed she was on the pill. Who the fuck isn’t on the pill at her age?”
She had been, but for all I knew, it had failed. I wasn’t telling him that. Let him sit with his stupid decisions.
I rubbed both hands over my face before looking at him. I realized that despite everything, there was still a part of me that wanted him to come around. To be my fucking father. To give a shit about me as a person and not a campaign accessory.
“And you really expect me to claim that baby as mine?” I demanded. “To marry her?”
“It’s what’s best for everyone. You know that. Besides, how do we know it’s not yours?”
“Because I haven’t slept with her in months,” I said, suddenly feeling exhausted. “Which you already know, or you wouldn’t be freaking out about this. And if you need proof, a paternity test can be done as early as seven weeks.”
“We have the same DNA, son.”
It was my turn to smirk. It never failed to amaze me that some people in public office didn’t understand basic science. “That’s not how DNA works, Dad.”
His nostrils flared. “I don’t give a shit how it works. You’re not getting that test. We have an election in less than four weeks. And nothing, I mean nothing, is going to get in the way of that. Don’t test me, Corbett.”
“Are you threatening me?”
He smoothed his lapels. “I don’t need to. Plenty of other people will. In fact, I think it might be in your best interest if you come to the house and stay with us until the election. For your own safety.”
“Right. You’re worried about my safety like you were worried about Arden’s? Enough to have her followed by one of your security goons?”
“Goons? I was looking out for her protection.”
“You had her followed,” I repeated, needed him to admit it.
“For her protection,” he gritted out.
