“I know.”
“Or tight.”
“I know.”
“Or… Jasper-y.”
He smiles. “Today isn’t about being Jasper-y. Today is about being Mary-y.” He holds it up against me. “Classic. Elegant. Comfortable enough that you won’t want to murder me by hour two.”
My throat tightens. “You hate simple.”
“I don’t hate simple. I hate boring. This isn’t boring. This is Grace Kelly meeting Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy with a touch of ‘I’m pregnant and glowing and if you look at me wrong, my bodyguards will end you.’”
I almost laugh. Almost cry. “I love it.”
“Good. Because if you said no, I had seventeen backup options and all of them have sequins.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m dressed.
Hair styled in loose waves. Minimal makeup—just enough to look alive. The dress fits perfectly. Skims my curves without clinging. Makes me look like a person instead of a pregnancy announcement.
Jasper steps back. Studies me. “Oh, sugar tits. If I were straight, I’d be in serious trouble right now.”
“Don’t call me that while looking at my boobs.”
“I’m gay. It doesn’t count.” He adjusts the neckline. “But seriously. You look devastating. Anton’s going to lose his mind.”
The name lands like a punch.
Anton.
Who isn’t here.
Who’s supposed to be coming home today but hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted. Nothing.
Jasper sees my face. “Hey. He’s coming.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know him. He keeps his promises.”
“What if—?”
“No.” He turns me to face the mirror. “No what-ifs today. Today you’re thirty. Today you’re beautiful. Today you’re surrounded by people who love you. That’s enough.”
I stare at myself. At this version of me I barely recognize.
Thirty years old. Pregnant. In love with a man who might be dead.
But standing. Still standing.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
He squeezes my shoulder. “Good. Now let’s go. Your public awaits.”
