Glasses were passed.
Laughter rose.
And when a flute of champagne was handed to me, I took it automatically—then paused.
Because the smell hit my nose and my stomach did something small and immediate.
No.
Not tonight.
Not anymore.
I set the glass down without thinking.
Portia’s eyes snapped to mine.
Then to my hand—resting absently on my belly.
Then back to my face.
Her expression changed in an instant.
“Joy,” she said softly.
Micah’s head turned sharply, attention narrowing like a blade.
“What?” he asked, immediate alarm in his tone.
I swallowed.
The firelight danced. The night held its breath.
I looked at him, my heart pounding with a different kind of fear now—not danger, not Victoria, not war.
This was holy terror.
This was hope.
“I …” My voice shook. I laughed once, breathless. “I’m not drinking champagne.”
Silence.
Then Sloane whispered loudly, “Oh, my God.”
Hallie Mae gasped and clutched her belly like she’d just been given a best friend for her unborn baby.
Micah stared at me.
His face went unreadable for one single second—the soldier trying to process without emotion.
Then it cracked.
His eyes widened.
“Joy,” he breathed, barely audible. “Are you?—”
I nodded, tears already spilling.
