Monday evening,a makeup artist dabbed powder on my face to prepare me for a press conference with Bryce, in which we would announce our engagement and upcoming wedding date. While I got done up, MyHome’s public relations director walked me through questions we’d be asked and how we would answer.
“Ready?” the publicist asked me, and I realized that the makeup artist had already finished and was pulling away the tissue paper bib that was in place to protect my clothes.
“As I’ll ever be,” I responded with a sigh.
She nodded and led me over to the area offstage where Bryce was talking with Maya. I’d never been to this part of The Tower before—it was on the sixth floor of the building, along with the bulk of the marketing department. This room was designed specifically for media events and big announcements. Our marriage qualified as the latter.
“It’s time,” the publicist said to him.
Maya gave me an encouraging smile, and Bryce reached over and squeezed my hand. I held on to his, grateful for the support, as we stepped onto the stage into the camera lights. Reporters instantly began shouting questions at us as Bryce and I sat atthe table with dozens of microphones sticking up. Panic must have reached my eyes because he leaned over and whispered, “Remember to breathe.”
I inhaled, unaware how tightly I’d been holding my breath. He squeezed my hand again. “I’m right here,” he assured me.
My stomach swooped with pleasure, and baby girl kicked again. I tried not to wince. This girl was definitely getting her black belt in karate one day.
The publicist—I forgot her name—directed the room so the questions quieted and press began raising their hands to be called on.
“How did you two meet?” shouted one reporter with a red press badge hanging around his neck.
Bryce said, “Jada works at the employee daycare in the building. We crossed paths one day, and she was impossible to ignore.”
My lips twitched at the inside joke.
The next person to get called on asked, “How long have you been seeing each other?”
“Not long,” Bryce admitted. “But I’m a firm believer that when you know, you know.”
There was that phrase again. It was romantic, someone knowing deep in their soul that you were the one for them. A small ache bloomed in my chest because I wished my parents could have met him. They would have loved him.
Bryce’s publicist called on another reporter. The woman stood up, needling me with her hawkish gaze. “This question is for Jada. Are you marrying him for his money?”
Bryce immediately jumped in. “Security, get her—" I put a hand on his arm. He looked down at the contact, then back to me with a questioning expression.
“I’d like to answer it,” I said quietly.
He nodded.
Then I looked directly at the woman. “Asking me if I’m marrying him for his money tells me you clearly don’t know Bryce. There are a million reasons a woman would want to marry him, and his money isn’t even on the list.”
Bryce squeezed my hand, mouthing athank youas his publicist called on the next reporter.
The man stood up slowly, innocuously, and then asked, “What’s the rush? Is she pregnant?”
My heart dropped as murmurs rippled throughout the room. Would someone know or be able to tell even with my loose and flowy top? I scanned my reflection in the mirror daily, looking for a hint of a bump, but all I ever saw was my regular apron belly scored with its usual stretch marks. But then again, everyone would find out soon enough.
Bryce leaned forward, speaking harshly into the microphone. “Asking a woman if she’s pregnant? Shame on you. We all should know by now it’s unacceptable.” His jaw ticked. “Anyone who continues to speak to my fiancée in that way will be escorted from the building and banned for life, along with the paper they write for.”
The room was so quiet, I could hear the jingle of someone’s badge as they shifted in their chair.
The publicist stepped forward, saying, “That’s enough questions for today, thank you.” She extended her arm for us, gesturing that it was time for us to leave the stage.
Reporters continued shouting out questions at us as we walked away, like they could get some last-minute juicy detail. Offstage, the publicist whispered to us, “Good job out there, you two.”
Bryce nodded, but my stomach was in my throat. I looked over at him “Does she know?”
His expression was serious as he nodded.
I looked at her, terrified that my baby would be subjected to a press mob like that, not in a building full of security but out in the street somewhere. “What happens when they find out about the baby?”
