I laugh, too breathless to answer. He crosses the room in a few strides, adjusting my necklace as he stands behind me. His hands are warm, grounding, and the weight of his presence makes my pulse settle. But the nerves keep buzzing under my skin.
When he turns back to the mirror, I slip into the bathroom. I tell myself it’s just to breathe, to clear my head. But the drawer is there. Stocked. Waiting.
My hand finds the box before I can second-guess. It isn’t planned, it isn’t even logical—it’s just something to quiet the storm inside me. Distract me from the nerves. I don’t expect anything from it. I never do.
The motions are automatic. The test rests on the counter, white plastic against cool marble. I turn away, bracing my palms on the sink, counting my breaths like that might slow the pounding in my chest. I think of Enzo, of the way his hand always drifts across my stomach when we’re tangled in sheets, the way he whispers about filling me, watching me swell with him.
I don’t let myself hope.
But when I glance down and see the second pink line appear—clear, undeniable—I feel the ground give way beneath me.
It’s real.
My breath catches, my heart slamming hard enough to echo in my ears. Joy should come first. Excitement. I’ve dreamed of this, teased myself with it. But all I feel is panic.
Because if I tell him now, Enzo won’t let me walk into that gala tonight.
A knock jolts me.
“Zara?” His voice is warm, casual. “Are you okay in there?”
Shit.
My fingers tighten on the counter, knuckles whitening. I stare at the little stick like it might vanish if I look hard enough. The pink lines don’t blur. They only grow sharper, more bold.
I force myself to move. To breathe. Tothink.
The test goes back into the drawer, tucked into the open box and placed at the bottom, buried like a secret I’m not ready toname. I close it with more care than I’ve ever used with anything fragile, as if the sound might give me away.
I dab at the corners of my eyes where panic threatened to show, then reach for my lipstick. The familiar motions help, steadying my hands, painting over the tremor that wants to spill out of me.
“Just touching up,” I call, my voice mercifully steady. Not too bright, not too flat—normal.
The door opens, and Enzo fills the frame, tall and devastating in his tux. His gaze sweeps over me, lingering like it always does, dark eyes drinking me in.
He doesn’t see it. The secret pulsing inside my chest, the storm I’ve just buried under a smear of lipstick and a composed smile.
Instead, he leans casually against the doorframe, watching me. “You’ll make us late, Angel,” he says, though there’s nothing impatient in his tone. Just hunger. Just pride.
I curve my lips, meeting his reflection in the mirror. “Worth it.”
He smiles, slow and dangerous, and for a moment I almost forget the truth sitting like dynamite in the drawer beside me.
Because underneath the panic and the pressure and the carefully masked chaos...I’ve never felt more alive.
Tension ridesin the SUV with us, thick and close like the anticipation before a storm.
Enzo’s hand is laced with mine, his grip firm, thumb brushing over my knuckles like a quiet promise he’s not letting go. I don’t need him to speak—I can feel the weight of his thoughts in the way he holds me. Focused. Ready. But not immune to nerves. None of us are.
Violette adjusts the drape of her wrap, crossing her legs withtheatrical precision as if she’s sitting front row at Milan Fashion Week instead of heading into a night that could end with headlines or gunfire.
“You know,” she says, breaking the silence like it’s a champagne glass, “if I die tonight, someone better make damn sure I don’t get buried in this dress. It’s couture, but it’s not casket-friendly.”
Enzo exhales through his nose, his head tipping toward the ceiling. “Christ, Ma.”
“I’m just saying,” Violette continues, totally unbothered. “I spent six grand having it tailored to my hips. If blood ruins it, I expect vengeance.”
“You’ll be fine,” I say, though my fingers tighten on Enzo’s thigh. “We’ve gone over every scenario. Every backup plan.”
