There it is. Not us. Not me.
The baby.
Something inside me cools.
“So,” he continues, like this is the obvious next step, “I want you to move in with me.”
I pull away from him completely this time. “No.”
He exhales slowly, like he expected that. “I’d rather give you the choice,” he says, his voice back to controlled, “than have to make it for you.”
My stomach drops, a feeling of dread hitting me. “I made my choice,” I say. “And I said no.”
“That’s not the right choice.”
I scoff, half amused, half panicked. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve been sectioned for your own safety,” he says. “And for the baby. They want to keep you here. You want to leave. I’m offering a middle ground.”
“It’s not your decision,” I snap. “It’s my dad’s.”
His gaze hardens. “I’ll get the paperwork,” he says. “A judge will sign it. I can take legal responsibility for your care if it comes to it.”
The room spins slightly. “You can’t do that,” I whisper. “You promised you wouldn’t take my baby.”
“And I won’t,” he says quickly. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” My voice cracks. “Because it sounds like control.”
“It’s protection,” he fires back. “You’re not well, Wynter. You can’t even see that.”
“And you can?” I shoot back. “After everything that happened between us?”
His expression flickers—guilt, maybe—but it’s gone just as quickly. “I’m trying to fix this,” he says. “I’m trying to make sure you’re safe.”
“And make sure I don’t run off with your baby?” I challenge.
He hesitates. “That too,” he admits.
His word’s twist my heart painfully. I let out a hollow laugh, pulling the blanket tighter around myself. “So, if I say no, you’ll force it anyway?”
He nods. “I don’t want to,” he says. “But I will if I have to.”
I stare at him, realising that everything we just shared was a trick. A way to soften the blow. He doesn’t give a shit about me, about what I’ve been through. All he cares about is his child. Just like I suspected.
“I’m not something you get to manage,” I say quietly. “Or control. Or fix.”
His jaw tightens. “When you’re well,” he says carefully, “you can come and go as you like. I’m not trying to trap you.”
“It feels like you are.”
“You’re the mother of my child,” he says. “I respect you.”
I shake my head slowly. “No,” I whisper. “You respect the situation. Not me.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Have you told dad or Aunt Lucy?”
He shakes his head and I scoff. “No, I bet you haven’t because you wouldn’t be sitting here now, they’d have kicked you out.” I groan, burying my face in my hands. “I’m so fucking stupid, I thought we were getting somewhere.”
“Wynter, we are,” he replies sounding pained. “This isn’t a setback. You’ll be able to see your therapist.”