"Since when do you say please?"
"Since my wife looks like she's about to collapse." His hands slide to my stomach. "I need you healthy. I need our son healthy. A few hours of relaxation aren't going to hurt."
He's right. And honestly, the idea of getting out of the mansion, of doing something normal, is appealing.
"Okay," I agree. "But if I hate it, I'm blaming you."
"Fair enough."
The spa is in Manhattan, tucked away on a quiet street in the West Village. From the outside, it looks unassuming. Inside, it's all white marble and soft lighting and the kind of hushed luxury that screams expensive.
Gemma is already there, wrapped in a plush robe, her hair pulled back. She looks as tired as I feel.
"Sera." She stands when I enter, and for a moment we just look at each other. Then she moves forward, pulling me into a hug. "I'm so glad you came."
I hug her back, surprised by how much I needed this. How much I needed someone who understands.
"Adrian said you needed to get out," I smile. "And apparently, I do too."
"He's not wrong." She links her arm through mine. "Come on. They have a private room for us. Massages first, then facials, then whatever we want."
The massage room is dimmed, two tables side by side. Soft music plays. It smells like lavender and eucalyptus.
For the first hour, we don't talk much. Just let the masseuses work out the knots in our backs, our shoulders, all the tension we carry. They are especially careful with me, and I realize this is the first time I feel encumbered by pregnancy. It's weirdly nice to feel the weight of my son—comforting.
It's not until we're alone in the relaxation room after, drinking cucumber water and wrapped in heated blankets, that Gemma finally speaks.
"How are you really doing?" she asks. "With everything."
"Honestly? I don't know." I sip my water. "Everything feels...surreal. Like I'm living someone else's life."
She pulls her blanket tighter. "Do you regret it? Marrying Adrian?"
It's a dangerous question. One I'm not sure how to answer honestly.
"Sometimes," I admit. "But then other times, I think maybe it's not as bad as I thought it would be." I press a hand to my stomach. "I can't regret what brought me here."
"He cares about you. I can tell."
"Does he? Or does he just care about controlling me?" That's been the crux of our problems. Adrian needs control, and I struggle to give it to him. "And yet, there are times when things between us are perfect—when we're shopping for the baby, when he holds me at night, when he looks at me like I'm the only thing in his world. Those moments are what keep me here."
"What you need to understand about Adrian is that love and possession are the same thing for him." Gemma's smile is sad. "He doesn't know how to love without possessing. But that doesn't mean the feeling isn't real."
I turn to look at her. "You know him better than I do." It's a statement. That's it.
She sets down her water. "Do you want to know what I see when I look at you two?"
"Dysfunction?" I sip my own water. "After all, we are constantly playing games."
She shakes her head. "He looks at you the way he's never looked at anyone. Like you're something precious. Something worth protecting." She pauses. "He's never cared enough about anyone else to look at them like that."
I'm not sure what to say to that because while I know Adrian cares about me, I wonder if it's only because he's fascinated by me, by the newness and excitement.
Gemma's face goes very still. "Has he told you about our father?"
I shake my head. "He told me you two were there when he died, and Bianca told me some…"
"Bianca's version is different from ours," she snaps. "Has Adrian mentioned details?"
