“I’ll deal with it,” he finishes for me. “You just keep your wife safe.”
I look down at my ring for a moment, thumb grazing the band like a reflex.
“I intend to.”
I’m curledup on the oversized sectional in one of his—our—sweaters, legs tucked under me, flipping through one of the baby books Violette left behind. I’m somewhere between “things to expect in week seven” and “should your uterus feel like it’s trying to kill you?” when I hear the softclickof the elevator locking into place. Then the smooth mechanical sound of the door sliding open.
His footsteps follow—steady, familiar, heavy enough to make the marble quietly echo. My stomach settles at the same time my pulse picks up.
Enzo walks in wearing black slacks and a dark shirt, top buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looks tired. A bruise is blooming near his knuckles, and he’s carrying a small white bakery box with a little red ribbon knotted around it.
He stops in front of the couch, eyes skimming over me with a warmth I feel in my chest.
“I bring offerings,” he says, his voice velveted with exhaustion and something soft.
My eyes go straight to the box. “Is that cake?”
“Vanilla bean,” he confirms, holding it out like a peace treaty. “With strawberry filling. You said this morning you wanted fruit.”
“God, you’re hot.” I sit up, reaching for it. “You could’ve come home with a shoe and I’d kiss you if it had strawberry jam on it.”
He sets the box down, then bends to press a kiss to my temple, the corner of my mouth, and finally my collarbone before easing off his jacket.
“I don’t want to know what you’d do for a croissant.” He laughs as he starts unbuttoning his cuffs.
“That depends on my level of desperation.”
He chuckles, moving toward the kitchen for plates. I follow, watching the way his shoulders shift under the fabric, the sharp lines of his profile. The man could order an airstrike and look like art while doing it.
“I saw the baby books,” he says, glancing back. “Did you highlight anything terrifying I should know about?”
“The baby is the size of a blueberry this week.”
He grabs two forks and turns with a grin. “Now the fruit obsession makes sense.”
We end up on the couch again, plate balanced on a throw pillow, feet tucked under the blanket. It’s quiet—just some jazz playing and the distant hum of the city outside the windows. The penthouse doesn’t feel so cavernous tonight. It feels like us. Or at least, like the beginning of what could be us.
I lean into his side after a few bites, my cheek against the soft fabric of his shirt. His hand finds my thigh, fingers tracing mindless, lazy circles. There’s something healing in the way he touches me now—like he’s not claiming, just grounding. Like I’m safe.
He rests his cheek on the top of my head. “I like you in my clothes. On my couch. Stealing my cake.”
“Cake you broughtme,don’t get it twisted.”
“You didn’t even share the frosting.”
“I’m pregnant and ruthless,” I shoot back.
He kisses the side of my face. “You’re perfect.”
For a while, I let myself pretend that’s all there is. That we’re just a couple in love, watching the city, planning a nursery. But I feel it—that shift. The subtle tightening of his fingers. The flick of his gaze toward the window. The way his mouth flattens a little when he thinks I’m not looking.
So I ask.
“Did you find anything?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts, adjusts his arm, takes a breath like it’s heavier than it should be.
“About?”
