1
SIMA
It’s late when I finally clock out. I swear my feet are plotting to murder me in my sleep, and honestly, I can’t blame them.
It’s been twelve hours of carrying boxes that feel twice as heavy thanks to the bowling ball strapped to my stomach. Twelve hours of running around after brides who think the wrong shade of cream is a crime against humanity.
A.k.a., a typical workday.
Assistant to a wedding planner sounded glamorous when I started. Spoiler: it’s not.
But starting over from scratch rarely is.
By the time I waddle my way down the street, my back feels like it’s been in a losing fight with a baseball bat. Why did I think I could pull this off again? I’m eight months pregnant, for crying out loud. Stupid, stupid Sima.
My body is begging me to stop. Every step is a painful reminder that I’m not the same person I was a year ago. I’m slower and heavier. Stretched thin in every sense of the word.
I follow the flagstone path to my cottage by the water, and for a second, it looks like a postcard. The porch light is glowing soft and warm. It’s the kind of glow that says,Welcome home, kick off your shoes, and collapse like a dying star.
My chest aches with longing at the thought. I almost let myself believe I’ll be able to spend the night relaxing despite the hellish day I’ve just had.
Then the panic creeps in.
One month. That’s it. I have one measly month until this kiddo makes her debut and my entire life gets flipped on its head. Then I’ll get to welcome all the better-known joys of motherhood: sleepless nights, endless diapers, chafing nipples, the works.
Plus, of course, a tiny human who will depend on me for literally everything.
And here I am, still working late nights, hauling chairs across ballrooms and pretending I have it all figured out.
What a joke. I barely havemefigured out.
My steps slow as the porch comes into view. My throat tightens. How the hell am I supposed to do this? These hours? This job? I can barely keep up now, and that’s without a newborn attached to me.
I swallow hard, push the panic down, and rest my hand on my belly. The baby shifts, a firm kick against my palm.
The emotion chokes me before I can stop it. My eyes sting. Exhaustion and love hit me all at once, messy and overwhelming.
“We’ll figure it out,” I whisper. “Mostly because we don’t have a choice.”
I’ve managed to start over. Again. This time in the Florida Keys, of all places. Admittedly, I didn’t plan it with some grand strategy. I just kept running south until I hit the ocean and couldn’t go any farther. End of the road—literally.
Goodbye, Sammi Banks.
Rest in peace, Sima Danilo.
Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for… Felicity Bennet.
That’s me now. Felicity—Latin for “happiness.” That’s a morbid little inside joke from me to me. Happiness isn’t really something I believe in anymore. I left that behind like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.
But comfort? Comfort might still be possible. If I can ever stop sweating, that is.
The air is different here. Heavy with salt, sticky on my skin. Palm trees line the streets and chickens roam like they own the place.
Unlike New York, where Sima Danilo is literally hunted by the mob, nobody looks at me twice here. I blend right in. Just another transplant trying to piece together a life. Little old Felicity in her little old cottage.
And while work isn’t as steady as I’d like, it’s enough to make ends meet for now. Besides, if I have to take time off once the baby comes, I’ve still got my cushion: the money I took from Petyr when I ran.
That was months ago, but it still sits there, untouched. My just-in-case money.
