"What if I'm like her?" I whispered, voice breaking.
"What if I resent this child the way my mother resented me? What if I'm incapable of the kind of love a baby needs?"
Understanding dawned in Zoe's eyes.
She'd been there through my childhood, had witnessed the careful emotional choreography of the Blake household.
Had held me through tearful confessions after too many glasses of wine in college, when I'd finally admitted how unloved I'd felt growing up in that beautiful, empty house.
"You are not your mother," she said firmly, gripping my shoulders. "You never have been."
"But what if?—"
"No." She cut me off.
"Your mother chose emptiness, Savannah. Chose distance. Chose to view you as an obligation rather than a gift. Those were her choices, not some inevitable genetic destiny you're doomed to repeat."
I sank back into my chair, the fight draining from me. "I don't know how to do this, Zoe. I don't know how to be a mother when I never really had one."
"Nobody knows how at first," she said, gentler now.
"But you know whatnotto do. You know what it feels like to be the child of someone who resents their choices. That's a powerful compass, Sav. One thing your mother never had."
She was right, of course. As terrified as I was, I could never treat a child the way I'd been treated—as an inconvenience, a complication, a barrier to the life my mother believed she should have had.
"I need to tell him," I said finally. "Tonight."
"Yes, you do." Zoe squeezed my hand. "And then you need to listen—really listen—to what he says. Not what you're afraid he'll say. Not what your mother would have said. What Lucas actually says."
The distinction felt important. I'd been projecting fears onto Lucas that belonged to my parents, to my past. Had been assuming his reaction based on my own anxieties rather than the man I'd come to know.
"I'm terrified," I admitted.
"Good," Zoe said, surprising me. "Terror means it matters. Means it's real."
My own words to Lucas, months ago, are now coming back to me when I needed them most.
The remainder of the day passed in a blur of meetings and decisions made on autopilot.
By six, I'd reached my limit, cancelling the charity event with a text to Zoe and heading home to the penthouse.
I needed space. Needed to prepare.
Needed to find words for the conversation that would change everything.
I changed into leggings and one of Lucas's sweaters, the cashmere soft against my skin, his scent lingering in the fabric. Cocooned in his essence, I curled on the sofa, watching the city lights emerge as darkness fell.
My hand drifted to my stomach repeatedly, trying to connect with the reality growing inside me.
Our child. Half me, half Lucas.
A perfect, terrifying convergence of two people who'd never expected to find each other, let alone create life together.
When the elevator chimed at nine-fifteen, I was still in the same position, though I'd migrated from shock to something closer to acceptance.
Not peace, exactly, but readiness to face whatever came next.
Lucas appeared, shedding his coat and briefcase by the door in a rare display of domestic casualness. His gaze found me immediately, assessing, cataloging the changes since morning.
