James scoffed. “She was too drunk to even recognize me that night of her debut. Well, told her to drink before performing so that she won't have an anxiety attack. Besides, the disguise worked perfectly. The moment she told me she was pregnant, I knew I had to play along. If she found out the truth, she would’ve run. We know that. And for god's sake, I thought she didn't love me back then because she was chasing her dream to be a famous singer that's why I did it. At least, she couldn't run anymore if I impregnated her, right?"
I slapped a hand over my mouth, my body trembling. James. My fiancé. My supposed “protector.” He was my producer. The man who had raped me. Everything suddenly made sense—why he never questioned how I got pregnant, why he accepted it so easily. He had planned this from the start.
He once told me he wants to have a baby already but I couldn't risk my hard work in my music so I dosagreed.
My stomach twisted in disgust, but I forced myself to stay silent. With shaky hands, I pulled out my phone and took a few photos of them, needing proof of this conversation. But before I could do anything else, a familiar voice called out from behind me.
“Zoey?”