Lucy
LucyIt might be time to stop wearing heels. Or choose the lower ones.
Fresh from another courtroom win, I step into the crowded elevator. I hide my wince, courtesy of swollen feet stuffed in my boss-b***h stilettos—the ones I use to assert my seniority, stature, and overall dominance in the courtroom and, more importantly, within my father’s firm.
I nearly wince again when I see Jeffrey’s on this ride.
He glances at my swollen belly then meets my gaze with a torment of conflict behind his grey eyes.
It’s not his.
We broke up six months before I had the very out-of-character sexcapade in DC that resulted in my changed state.
“Lucy,” he says. It’s a statement, not an opening. An acknowledgment of the eight years we wasted together.
I bite back a sigh. “Jeffrey.”
Thankfully, the
