My BFF’s “Gift” for My Daughter? She’s Pregnant With MY Husband’s Baby! Chapter 21
I choked out: “When? When did you start wanting her?”
He scratched his jaw. Acting all thoughtful.
“Maybe that day you beat someone for Summer. I dunno, something about a girl who fights back…”
“Or graduation. That white shirt she had on… sexy.”
He shrugged like it was nothing.
“Charlie, people change. Who the hell knows why?”
“I used to hate spoiled rich girls. Still ended up with you.”
Ice cold. No filter. That’s Perry.
I pushed down the pain. Kept going.
“Why fake dying? Why not just break up like normal people?”
He didn’t even hesitate.
“Because I know you. Back then, you couldn’t handle choosing between love and your family’s rep.”
“You would’ve blown everything up. Your parents, my parents, Summer-everyone would’ve been screwed.”
“But now? You’ve got your shit together. That’s why you’re here talking instead of posting receipts online.”
He had me figured out.
Every move I’d make. Everything.
And he was right. I wouldn’t blow this up.
Not because I’m “mature” now.
Because I’m dying.
Six months. That’s it. I’m not wasting time on drama.
I sat in some random café forever. Just staring.
How do I tell Mom and Dad I’m terminal?
Sky got dark. I finally went home.
A woman giggling inside.
I stopped at the door.
Mom’s voice: “Summer honey, take the kiddo and head out. Charlotte texted she’s almost home.”
“Look, what you two did five years ago? That was messed up. Charlotte’s been miserable since. I know she’s not my real daughter, but… it still kills me seeing her like this.”
Dad let out this heavy sigh. “We’ll try to make it right. Somehow.”
Summer-super soft, apologetic:
- Rabu!
“I know, Mom, Dad. I’m gonna tell her soon. I swear.”
Everything made sense.
Why Mom always dragged Summer to family dinners.
Why she’d tear up looking at her.
Why she kept shoving cash in Summer’s hands.
Those weird Barbie dolls showing up at the house.
Summer’s their real kid.
They KNEW she faked her death. Had Perry’s baby. All of it.
And they watched me blame myself for five fucking years.
Cold just washed over me.
Perfect.
Guess I don’t have to worry about them crying when I’m gone.
They can finally stop pretending.
Pulled out my phone.
Texted Dr. Martinez:
“Done with chemo. Cancel everything.”
The doorknob turned.
