“Don’t say what you’re about to say. You can, and you will. Nothing is stronger than love. Not even hate. Not even death.”
My sister was wrong, but I didn’t tell her that.
Death was stronger than anything.
It had been my path to deliverance, and rebirth.
My soul had been its price.
That, and any hope of love.
Later that evening, while in bed, I got bored and texted Devon. I still had his phone number from three years ago, when I rode his face on my way to Orgasmville before kicking him out.
Belle: why do you want a child anyway?
He answered after twenty minutes. Probably busy entertaining one of his toothpick-legged, PhD-holding female friends.
Devon: is this the national census?
Bastard either deleted my number or never saved it in the first place. That definitely brought me down a couple notches ego-wise.
Belle: it’s Belle. Answer the question.
Devon: why must there be a devious reason behind my desire for an heir?
Belle: because you’re smart, and I don’t trust smart people.
Devon: putting your trust in stupid people is worse. Smart people are, at the very least, highly predictable.
Belle: all I know about you is that you are a royal. And rich.
Devon: that’s enough for most women to offer their complete submission to me.
Belle: I’m not most women, Devon. Even your closest friends don’t know shit about your ass. If we do this, and I’m not saying we will, I don’t want to be in the dark.
He kept me waiting for a few minutes. I wondered if it was because he wanted to make a point—that he wasn’t dropping whatever he was doing tonight to converse with me—or because he really was with another woman. I didn’t care if he was currently having sex with the entire team of the Miami Heat Dancers. Or if he was at Sam Brennan’s joint, drinking and smoking himself to an early grave and questionable sperm count.
Devon: you won’t be in the dark. I’d ravish you in full daylight.
I flipped over to my belly on the mattress. My fingers flew over my screen.
Devon: who wouldn’t want this?
I thought, for sure, the stuffy stuck up sent me a dick pic. But when I opened the image, it was a picture of a baby with a shock of white-blond hair and piercing blue eyes in a full sailor’s costume. The outfit looked like a dress, and the baby was so cherubic, I wanted to bite his soft thigh rolls.
Belle: SHUT THE FUCK UP.
There was no reply. Dammit, he was so literal.
Belle: is that you?
Devon: it’s me.
He was the cutest baby in the world, that was for damn sure. But for some reason, my mentally challenged self couldn’t pay him this simple compliment.
Belle: blue and white are not your colors, bro. And that dress makes your ankles look huge.
I knew he was laughing, just as I knew he wasn’t going to write LOL. Devon was above abbreviations and acronyms. He once threw a bar of soap at Hunter when he used the word “rando” to refer to a stranger, and insisted he scrub his mouth with it, since he sullied up the Queen’s English.
Devon: I’ve refreshed my cardio schedule since. Fencing, mainly.
Belle: why do you want to have a child? I insisted, asking again.
Devon: I need someone to inherit all I’ll leave behind.
Belle: ever heard of charity?
Devon: sounds like a stripper.
Belle: ha ha. For real now.
Devon: charity begins at home. Ask Dickens.
Belle: pretty sure he’s a little too dead to answer. Is that what it’s all about? The money?
I had no idea at what point I grew a conscience, but there we were. What right did I have to judge him when I was (maybe) entering this arrangement for his dough and to be invited to royal weddings?
Devon: no. In addition, I rather enjoy children. I think they’re entertaining, insightful, and generally more cultured than most grown-ups.
Belle: if we do this (and again, I’M NOT SAYING WE WILL), I’d never sleep with you after we conceive. I’d never date you, never marry you, never give you all the things men want from the mothers of their children.
I was getting kind of into the idea of doing this with him. The money was a huge factor, but I also liked that he was not a gray avatar in a sea of sperm bank donors. I had points of reference I could later compare to my future baby. I knew he was a gifted fencer, that he found money talk tacky, and was a grammar Nazi. I knew he was appalled by American football and smitten with world history. That he was a skier and owned an Aga and old Barbour jackets. I knew how he smelled after sex. The sweaty masculinity, the expensive leather and sandalwood of him.
And I knew he owed me exactly nothing and could have a child with any other woman on the East Coast. Most would fall at his feet just for a chance.