Fuck.
"Congratulations," I hear myself say. My voice sounds distant. Hollow. I'm not sure how to feel in this moment.
"Thank you," Sera beams. "We just found out, and we're over the moon." Adrian gives her a genuine smile. "It's why I've been trying so hard to get you over for dinner," she giggles. "Felt too big to just tell you via text."
My throat tightens. The room feels too small. Too hot. I want to be happy for them. At least, for Sera, who's never done anything to me.
And yet...
I push back from the table. "Excuse me. I need some air."
"Gemma—" Adrian starts.
But I'm already walking. Out of the dining room. Through the foyer. Out the front door.
I make it to the side of the house before I stop. I'm shaking. From the cold? From the ghosts of this house?
Who fucking knows.
I certainly don't.
For months, I've been trying to conceive, half dreading the moment I do, and no matter how I feel about having a child, I can't stop the sting that comes from failure.
I'm useless. Saint knew it. It's why he made life miserable during our engagement. He didn't want to be tied to me, and maybe he was right.
Because I can't give him what he needs more than anything—an heir.
"Gemma."
Saint's voice. I didn't hear him approach, too wrapped up in my thoughts.
"Please, go." I manage. I don't want him to see me like this. I wipe my face, not sure when the tears started.
His thumb reaches out and rubs a tear from my cheek. He brings his thumb to his lips and sucks the moisture from his skin. It would feel very erotic if the circumstances were different.
"Do you want to remind me how fucking useless I am, Saint?" I push him away from me, but he doesn't move. "The perfect little princess who can't produce an heir." I point at the windows of the house. "Meanwhile, Sera gets pregnant after one go, and now..."
I inhale sharply, trying to gain some semblance of control.
Saint's jaw tightens. "Come here."
"No." I push him away, but this time he doesn't allow it.
He pulls me into his arms anyway. And I fight it for exactly three seconds before collapsing against him.
I don't cry. I'm too angry to cry. Too frustrated. Too everything.
I just stand there, shaking, while he holds me.
"You're not broken," he says finally. His voice is quieter than I've ever heard it.
"Yes, I am. Five months, Saint. Five fucking months."
"That's not unusual."
"We fuck like rabbits," I remind him. "And we aren't careful. It should have happened by now."
"Could be my fault," he says, shrugging. "Slow swimmers."
