"Dr. Lin said around sixteen to twenty weeks for first-time mothers. So another seven weeks or so."
"That feels like forever."
"And no time at all." She pressed my hand more firmly against her stomach. "But they’re in there. Our baby. Growing stronger every day."
"I can't wait to feel them move. To know they’re really real."
"They’re real now. Just quiet still." Paola's voice was getting drowsier. "Soon enough they’ll be kicking me at three in the morning and I'll be complaining about never sleeping."
"I'll take the three a.m. kicks. You take the midnight ones."
She laughed softly. "Deal."
We fell asleep like that. Wrapped around each other. My hand on her belly where our child grew, still and silent but undeniably there. Waiting for the day—still weeks away—when they would announce themselves with movement we could both feel.
The war was over. The threats had been eliminated. The future stretched ahead—uncertain, yes, but ours.
And for the first time since that morning I'd married the wrong woman, I felt ready for whatever came next.
Because I wasn't facing it alone anymore.
I had Paola. I had our baby. I had a family worth more than any empire.
And that was enough.
More than enough.
Everything.
CHAPTER 23
Paola
The coffee shop Anna chose was deliberately neutral—a Starbucks in Midtown, busy enough for anonymity, public enough to feel safe.
I arrived ten minutes early, ordered a decaf latte (doctor's orders), and claimed a corner table. My hands shook slightly as I stirred sugar into the foam. Ten weeks pregnant now. The nausea had eased, but the anxiety hadn't.
This was Anna. My best friend since college. The woman who'd helped me move into my first apartment, who'd held me through breakups, who'd been the sister Bianca never was.
And I hadn't seen her in over two months.
She arrived exactly on time, scanning the crowd until her eyes found me. For a moment, we just stared at each other across the coffee shop.
Then she was moving, weaving through tables, and pulling me into a fierce hug.
"You're alive," she whispered. "You're really alive."
"I'm alive." My voice broke. "I'm so sorry, Anna. I'm so sorry."
We sat, both of us crying, drawing stares from other customers. Neither of us cared.
"When you disappeared—" Anna wiped her eyes roughly. "I thought you were dead. I filed a police report. I went to your apartment. Your neighbor said you hadn't been home in days."
"I know. I got your messages. All fifty-seven of them."
"You could have called me back. You could have told me you were okay."
"I couldn't. It was—everything was complicated. Dangerous."
