Christina unlocked the car, then paused with her hand on the door. “Mom? Can we stop at the baby store after lunch? I saw this mobile with little violets on it—purple and green, really pretty. I think it would look perfect in the nursery.”
“The one on Oak Street? I’ve been wanting to check that place out.” Tara pulled out her phone, already typing. “I’ll text Ally—see if she wants to meet us. She mentioned wanting to help pick out the crib bedding.”
“And maybe we can swing by the inn on the way home? I want to see the progress on the porch railings.”
They slid into the car, Tara still texting, Christina adjusting her seat to accommodate her belly. The parking lot was emptying out for lunch hour, the fresh mountain air coming through the cracked windows.
“Ally says she’s in,” Tara reported. “And Ryan wants to know if you’ll bring him a chocolate milkshake.”
Christina started the engine. “Tell him yes, but he owes me.”
Her phone buzzed as she backed out of the parking space—a notification from a tabloid app she kept meaning to delete. She caught a glimpse of the headline before the screen dimmed.
Castellano Heir Spotted at Manhattan Charity Gala with Mystery Brunette.
Her stomach tightened. She silenced the phone and dropped it in her purse.
“Everything okay?” Tara asked.
“Fine.” Christina pulled onto the main road, the clinic shrinking in her rearview mirror. “Just spam.”
Ahead, the mountains rose green and solid against the June sky. Lunch with her mom, shopping with her sister, a milkshake for her brother. A normal day in her strange new life.
Violet kicked twice, hard, right against her ribs.
“I know,” Christina murmured, one hand on her belly, the other on the wheel. “I know.”
CHAPTER 12
MARCO
The Manhattan skyline glittered beyond the rooftop railing like a promise Marco had stopped believing in years ago.
He stood at the edge of the party, champagne flute in hand, watching the usual suspects perform their usual roles. Trust fund heirs laughing too loudly at jokes that weren’t funny. Models posing for phones that never stopped clicking. Publicists steering their clients toward photographers positioned at strategic angles. The whole elaborate dance of people pretending to have fun while calculating what the night could do for their careers.
The champagne was Dom Pérignon. The view was worth a million bucks. And he felt absolutely nothing.
“You look thrilled to be here.” Colton appeared at his elbow, his own glass untouched. Unlike Marco, Colton hadn’t quite mastered the art of looking effortlessly bored at these events. His discomfort still showed in the tension across his shoulders, the way his eyes kept scanning for exits.
“I’m ecstatic.” Marco took a sip of champagne he didn’t taste. “Can’t you tell?”
“You’ve got your ‘please God let a meteor hit this building’ face on.”
“That obvious?”
“Only to me.” Colton leaned against the railing beside him, turning his back on the crowd. “Everyone else thinks you’re being mysteriously European.”
Marco snorted. “Mysteriously European. I’ll add that to my list of talents.”
Behind them, someone shrieked with laughter—the fake kind that carried across rooftops and into Instagram reels. Marco didn’t bother looking. He’d been to enough of these parties to know exactly what he’d see. Someone throwing their head back, champagne sloshing dangerously, while friends clustered around to capture the moment from every conceivable angle.
“When did this get old?” Colton asked.
“Speak for yourself. I’m a youthful twenty-four.”
“You know what I mean.” Colton gestured vaguely at the party behind them. “This used to be fun. Remember? Or at least I think I remember it being fun.”
Marco considered the question. There had been a time in the early days of his modeling career when parties like this had felt exciting. The thrill of being seen, of being wanted, of having doors open simply because you looked a certain way or had a certain name. But somewhere along the line, the thrill had curdled into something duller. Now every party felt like the same party, every conversation like a script he’d memorized without meaning to.
