"You don't have to disappear."
"I'm not disappearing. I'm being tactful." He smiled, that real smile I'd learned to treasure. "Your friend is coming to make sure I haven't kidnapped you and stolen your identity. The least I can do is let her conduct her investigation without my hovering presence."
"She's going to interrogate me."
"Of course she is. That's what friends do." He headed toward the study, pausing at the door. "Call me when she's ready to be convinced I'm not a monster. I'll come make small talk and be charming."
"You're always charming."
"Exactly."
He disappeared into the study, and I stood alone in the kitchen, my hands wrapped around my coffee cup, trying to quell the nervous flutter in my stomach that had nothing to do with the baby.
Amber was coming.
My best friend, my oldest friend, the woman who'd known me since graduate school—she was finally coming to see what my life had become. And I had no idea how to explain it to her.
***
She arrived at noon exactly, because Amber was nothing if not punctual.
I met her at the elevator, my heart hammering in my chest. The doors opened, and there she was—same warm brown skin, same natural curls, same expression of determined skepticism that I remembered from a thousand late-night study sessions.
"Oh my God," she said, her eyes dropping to my belly. "You're huge."
"Thanks. That's exactly what every pregnant woman wants to hear."
"I didn't mean—" She stopped, shook her head, and then she was crossing the distance between us and pulling me into a hug. Or trying to—my stomach got in the way, and we ended up in an awkward sideways embrace that made us both laugh.
"I've missed you," she said against my shoulder.
"I've missed you, too."
She pulled back, her hands still on my arms, and studied my face with the intensity I remembered from our years as roommates. Looking for bruises, probably. Signs of coercion. Evidence that I was being held against my will.
"You look good," she admitted reluctantly. "Annoyingly good. Pregnancy agrees with you."
"It agrees with my appetite. I've eaten more in the past seven months than in the previous seven years."
"You needed to eat more. You've always been too thin." She looked past me, taking in the penthouse for the first time. "Jesus Christ, Keira. This place is..."
"I know."
"It's like something out of a magazine. Or a movie about oligarchs." She walked further in, her eyes moving over the furniture, the art, the floor-to-ceiling windows with their million-dollar view. "Your husband is rich."
"Yes."
"Very rich."
"Yes."
"Like, buy-a-small-country rich."
"I don't think he's interested in buying countries. But yes, theoretically, he could probably afford one."
Amber turned to face me, her expression shifting from awe to concern. "Keira. What the hell is going on? Six months ago, you called me out of nowhere to tell me you'd gotten married—married!—to a man you'd never mentioned. Then you disappeared. No visits, barely any calls, just vague texts about 'family stuff' and 'complications.' And now I find out you're pregnant, living in a palace, and—" She stopped, swallowed. "I've been worried sick about you. I need to know you're okay."
"I'm okay."
