Rielle: I cannot believe you issued a statement today and told the world you don’t love me. You prick!

John: Awwww honey, let me explain …

Rielle: My sister is fucking pissed at you, motherfucker, and she phoned the Washington Post and made it clear that little Francis is your baby!!

John: Sweet mother of fuck, why did you let her do that? I just went on TV and denied it! Jesus! I bought you a $3 million dollar home in Santa Barbara, and I’m getting a shitload of money to you every month, not to mention all those shit-ass documentaries I paid you for, and I banged you last month three times in three hours before those Enquirer fuckers showed up and chased me all over the hotel. What the fuck kind of gratitude is that?

Rielle: I thought you loved me! I am going to tell the world the truth! I have the e-mails, the letters and the phone messages! I saved the pillow cases with your hair dye stains all over them!

John: Now sugar, listen to me. Daddy does love you. Of course he does. But Liz is sick, honeypie, and so we’ll wait. I love you more than life itself. But if you want us to walk down that aisle after Liz buys the farm, you need to listen to me and listen good, sweetpea.

Rielle: You said you didn’t love me and here I am holed up in this house nursing this baby and wondering when the fuck we’re EVER going to be together!

John: Sugar, I said listen to me good. There is a honking big cheque that could be getting deposited into your Cayman Islands bank account any minute now. Millions, honeypie. And in return for those millions, you are going to burn those pillow cases, delete those e-mails, erase those messages, and issue a statement tomorrow saying you have no intention of getting a paternity test. Do you understand, angelface? Because I said tonight I’d welcome one, and so if you don’t come out tomorrow and refuse one, I am royally fucked. I can kiss my political future good-bye, and that will not be good for you either as the future Mrs. John Edwards the Second. You want to be on my arm when I am vice-president, don’t you?

Rielle: How much?

John: Six million, sweetcheeks.

Rielle: And you promise me that we will in fact one day be together? You’re not shitting me, are you? Because if YOU’RE FUCKING SHITTING ME …

John: Now there, there, sugarplum. You’ll wake up our baby. Hold tight, honeybee. Of COURSE we’ll be together. I told you I loved you, didn’t I, and I am a man of my word! Would I lie to you?

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