"Good. Hard, but good."
"Did she understand?"
"Some of it. She thinks I might have Stockholm syndrome."
"Do you?"
The directness of the question surprised me. "Do you think I do?"
"I think what we have is complicated. Started wrong. But what it became—" He crossed to the couch, sat beside me. "What it became is real. At least, it is for me."
"For me too." I took his hand. "I told her I love you. That I chose this. That I'm happy."
"Are you? Happy?"
"Yes. Are you?"
"More than I ever thought I'd be."
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Cesare's hand moved to my stomach. Ten weeks. Still barely showing, but the small curve was starting to be noticeable under fitted clothes.
"How are you feeling?" he asked. "You and the baby?"
"Tired. The nausea's better but the exhaustion is worse. Dr. Lin says that's normal for the first trimester."
"Only two more weeks until the second trimester."
"Are you counting down?"
"I've been counting since the day you told me." His hand was warm through my shirt. "Twelve weeks is when the risk of miscarriage drops significantly. When we can tell more people. When everything becomes more real."
"It's not real now?"
"It's real. But it'll be more real, if that makes sense."
It did. The first trimester felt fragile, tentative. Like we were holding our breath, waiting to make sure everything would be okay
"Anna wants to meet you," I said.
"Your best friend wants to meet the man who forced you into marriage?"
"The man I chose to stay with. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Cesare." I turned to face him fully. "I need you to understand something. What we have now—it's not about how it started. It's about what we built. You gave me choices. You protected me. You showed me who you really are. And I fell in love with that person."
"Even knowing what I've done? What I'm capable of?"
"Even knowing. Because I've also seen you cry over our baby. I've watched you protect your brother. I've felt how much you love me."
His eyes were suspiciously bright. "I don't deserve you."
"Probably not. But you have me anyway."
He kissed me then. Soft and reverent. Not the hungry kisses of desire, but something deeper. More tender.
When we broke apart, he rested his forehead against mine. "I want to show you something."
