She stirs, slowly, like she feels the weight of my stare.
Then her eyes open—and catch me.
For a second, I brace myself. I expect her to flinch. To regret everything. To pull the blanket tighter around her and say spending the night together was a mistake.
But she doesn’t. She just blinks at me sleepily and says, “Good morning.”
Before I can answer, there’s a knock on the door. The cook’s voice comes through. “Breakfast is ready, sir, madam.”
Zoe shifts, sitting up slightly. “You go ahead,” she murmurs, brushing hair from her face. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
I hesitate—just a beat—but then I get up and head downstairs. She’s not long after me. Her hair’s swept up into a bun, loose strands framing her face. No makeup, no armor. Just her. And she sits across from me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I grab a cup of coffee, half expecting her to ignore me the way she used to. But instead, she looks up and says, “Can I leave the estate today? I want to get a few things for the baby.”
It takes me a second to answer. Not because it’s such a shocking request, but because of the way she says it. Calm. Measured. Not a fight. Not a scream. Not a demand to be let out of her cage. Just… asking.
I study her face. She’s trying not to show it, but there’s something there—a small flicker of trust, or maybe hope. Or maybe she’s just tired of the walls.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “We’ll go today. But not without security.”
She groans, rolls her eyes. “Obviously.”
But there’s no real bite to it. She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push. Something is shifting. Maybe she’s finally learning to trust me.
The drive into the city is slow, deliberate. I have two black cars trail behind us—standard protocol, but today it feels more important and essential. Like the air around her needs guarding. I can’t risk her safety.
Zoe sits beside me, staring out the window, fingers curled around her purse. She hasn’t said much, but I can feel that something in her loosened last night. Maybe the storm broke more than just the sky.
We walk through boutique after boutique. I let her lead. She picks up soft blankets, impossibly tiny socks, hand-stitched toys. Her eyes light up every time. I don’t say much, just watch her with a kind of quiet reverence I haven’t earned.
Down the kiddies aisle, she lifts a frilly pink dress and holds it up to her chest. “I want a girl,” she says, like it’s already decided.
I raise a brow. “I want a boy this time.”
She scoffs. “Why? So you can teach him how to brood in expensive suits and make people disappear?”
I laugh—actually laugh—and it surprises us both.
She narrows her eyes like she’s trying to figure out if I’ve finally cracked. “Did… you just laugh?”
“I’m capable,” I say, smirking. “Despite what you might believe.”
She tilts her head, mock-serious. “I thought your face was carved from concrete.”
“Ouch.” I point to a small bike. “Let’s get that.”
She huffs. “You’re going to make a terrible father. The kid can’t even ride that until they’re about six years old. By then, the bike is probably outdated. This is more like it.”
She reaches for a toy rabbit—soft, floppy-eared, ridiculous—and turns to show me, a question in her eyes. I reach for it and our hands brush. It’s brief, nothing really. But it lingers. A second too long. That pulse of something unspoken.
Neither of us moves.
I stare at her fingers still resting near mine, and for a moment, all I can think about is how easily this could be something else—her hand in mine, her lips on my skin, her laugh against my chest. I clear my throat and break the spell.
“I’ll carry the bags,” I say. She doesn’t argue. Just nods and lets me take them. “Let’s go somewhere else. There’s nothing to buy here again,” I add. “I know just the place.”
I pay the bill and we leave. There’s something unsettling about how natural it feels. Me walking beside her with shopping bags full of baby clothes and stuffed animals. Her humming under her breath, a little more relaxed with each step. I’m not supposed to want this. I’m not supposed to feel this. But I do. Badly.
