All of it pressing down on the woman carrying my child. All of it generating the exact thing the doctor just told us to eliminate.
Avery had made a joke about my guilt over what her body is going through to carry our child. I know she’s strong enough to handle it. She’s been strong enough to handle anything life has thrown at her. But even my capable, courageous Avery has her limits.
Her hand finds my arm, even with her eyes closed. I cover her fingers with my own and keep driving.
Taking us home.
21
AVERY
A thousand windows blazewithin the darkened city, headlights streaming through the grid of streets like blood through veins. The Manhattan skyline is sharp and glittering on the other side of the penthouse glass, where I’ve been standing for the past twenty minutes.
Nick is here somewhere too. His office, I think. I heard his voice earlier, low and clipped, probably finishing up whatever calls he'd postponed when Kelsey's number lit up his phone earlier this afternoon. He's given me space since we got home. Fed me, made sure I drank an entire bottle of water, watched me eat every bite of the simple pasta he threw together.
Then he retreated. Not far, just enough to let me breathe without his worried gaze tracking every exhale.
My reflection in the tall windows stares back at me. A woman in soft clothes, hair still damp from the shower, arms wrapped around herself like she's trying to hold something in. Or keep something out.
I press my palm flat against the glass. The cool beneath my fingers is soothing. The barrier between me and all that noise, all that relentless energy.
The baby is fine. I'm fine. The doctor confirmed both.
So why can't I settle?
I know the answer, even though I don’t want to admit it.
The wedding is coming up fast. Three hundred guests. Photographers and caterers and florists and the society pages already running speculation about my dress, my jewelry, about what kind of statement Dominic Baine's bride will make simply by walking down the aisle. The final seating charts alone took four hours to finish last week, all so that the right people are positioned near the other right people and so no one feels slighted or left out.
And the press. God, the press. They’re still circling, though from a safe distance thanks to Gabe and his team. The tabloids are still hungry for more of my past. The article on my mother was removed from the headlines, but just as I feared, more rumors are already swirling online. Cameras will be outside the church. They'll be lurking at the reception. They'll be everywhere, thirsting for a piece of the artist who crawled out of poverty and trauma to ultimately land one of the most powerful men in New York.
I wanted this. I said yes to all of it—the venue, the guest list, the security detail, the endless fittings at House of Delaire with Serena and her team pinning silk and lace around my body while I stood on that platform like a mannequin being dressed for display.
I thought I wanted it.
Part of me still wants it. But another part of me . . .
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Nick’s deep voice draws my attention before I realize he’s there. I glance over my shoulder and see him step away fromwhere he’d been leaning against the hallway wall. He approaches slowly, his face solemn, concerned.
He walks up to me from behind, pausing close enough that I could lean back and find his chest, but not yet touching. Just standing with me. Looking out at what I'm looking at.
He doesn't ask if I'm okay. He's been asking variations of that question all day, and he's smart enough to know I've had enough of answering it.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The city glitters below, relentlessly in motion. Nick’s reflection watches it with the same unreadable stillness he brings to boardrooms and negotiations. That shrewd focus that misses nothing, reveals nothing.
"I keep thinking about today at House of Delaire," I say finally. My voice sounds raspy in the quiet. "All that light pouring in. The mirrors everywhere. Everyone watching while they pinned and measured and fussed around me."
He lowers his head toward my shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to the curve below my neck.
"And then I think about this." I lift my hand from the glass, gesture vaguely at the view. "All of it out there. The photographers. The guests. The… spectacle." The word tastes bitter. "And I'm in here, behind glass, looking at it as if it's something happening to someone else."
Nick is quiet. Waiting. He's always known when to let me find my own way to the point.
"I don't—" I stop. Start again. "This is going to sound terrible."
"Tell me."
