Chapter one
Savannah
I am eight weeks and four days pregnant, and tonight I have to smile my way through the Adams family Christmas party with the father of my unborn child. Oh, and he has no idea.
I tug the hem of my cream sheath dress down. Usually, I would be wearing something tight and sparkly to this party, but not this year. There is no real bump yet, just a subtle firmness low in my belly that only I can feel when I lie flat on my back at night and press my fingertips there, waiting for proof that this is actually happening.
Ellie texts again.
Ellie: I’m outside. Move your ass, Sav.
I grab my coat, shove my phone in my pocket, and force myself down the stairs before I can talk myself into faking the flu.
She’s behind the wheel of her SUV, Santa hat tilted at a reckless angle, grinning like tonight is going to be the best nightof our lives instead of the one where I might spontaneously combust.
“You look cute,” she says as I slide in. “Very sophisticated.”
“I feel like I’m in a tent.”
She backs out of my driveway and cranks the heat. “Mom will go crazy for your grown-up look. Oliver’s back, I saw him before I left the house.”
My stomach flips so hard I taste metal. “You mentioned that.”
“I mentioned it yesterday. You said, and I quote, ‘Cool, cool, cool.’ Which is how I know you are officially spiraling.”
I stare out the window at the snow-dusted pines whipping past. I am spiraling. I have been spiraling since the two pink lines appeared while Ellie waited in my living room, asking if I needed her to grab more wine.
The estate comes into view too quickly. The columns wrapped in cedar rope, windows glowing gold, the front lawn lit up like it’s trying to guide Santa in personally. Valets wave us forward. Ellie hands over the keys and links her arm through mine the second we’re out of the car.
Inside, the air is thick with cinnamon and fresh balsam. A twelve-piece string quartet plays “Carol of the Bells” in the corner. Mrs. Adams spots me immediately and descends in a cloud of Chanel and red velvet.
“Savannah, sweetheart.” She kisses both cheeks. “You’re radiant. Are you eating? You look like you’ve lost weight.”
I nearly laugh. How shocked would she be if she knew I had lost weight because her unborn grandchild has me throwing up morning, noon, and night?
I accept a glass of champagne the moment a waiter passes because that’s who I’ve always been at these parties: the girl who can match Ellie drink for drink and still dance on the coffee table by midnight. Except tonight, I have no intention of swallowing asingle drop. I hold the flute like a prop and trail Ellie deeper into the crowd.
She abandons me five minutes later for a cluster of cousins near the bar, and I drift toward the massive Christmas tree, pretending to admire the hand-blown glass ornaments while I scan faces I’ve known since childhood.
And then I see him.
Oliver stands near the fireplace, one shoulder against the mantel, talking to his uncle. He’s wearing a charcoal crewneck that pulls tight across his chest and dark trousers that make his legs look endless. His hair is longer than it was in October, curling slightly at the ends, and the firelight catches on the sharp line of his jaw.
He looks exactly like the man who pinned me against a velvet wall at that Halloween charity masquerade ten weeks ago and kissed me until I forgot how to breathe.
I remember the weight of his hands sliding under my cape, the scrape of his teeth against my neck, and the way he growled my name when he lifted me onto that marble console and pushed inside me with nothing between us. I remember the frantic, perfect rhythm of it, the way he buried his face in my hair and said, “I’ve dreamed of this for years,” like the words were being ripped out of him.
I remember waking up alone the next morning to a text that said: "Emergency in Singapore."
I never answered.
Now he’s twenty feet away and every nerve ending I own lights up like the tree behind me. He turns his head, slow, deliberate, as if he felt me staring. Our eyes lock and the room narrows to just the two of us.
His expression doesn’t change at first, just a long, unreadable beat while something fierce and unsettled moves behind hiseyes. Then he straightens, excuses himself from his uncle, and starts walking toward me.
People try to stop him. They always do. Oliver Adams has been the family’s star since he sold his first company at twenty-four. Everyone wants thirty seconds of his time.
He doesn’t give it to them.
