But today, something is different.
The door is closed, and Gabriel stops in front of it, turning to face me with an expression I can't quite read.
"I need you to understand something before you go in," he says. "This isn't a gift. It's not something I'm giving youbecause I think you need it or because I want to control your reaction to it. It's just... something I wanted you to have. Something I thought you should see."
"You're scaring me a little."
"Don't be scared." He takes my hands, pressing a kiss to each palm. "Just... look. And then tell me what you think."
He opens the door.
The studio looks the same as always—the long tables, the equipment, the prints hanging on the walls. But in the center of the room, on an easel I've never seen before, is a painting.
Not a photograph. A painting.
I move closer, my heart climbing into my throat.
It's a portrait. A woman with dark hair and fierce eyes, her chin lifted in defiance, her hands cradling the swell of her pregnant belly. Behind her, barely visible in shadow, is the silhouette of a man—protective, possessive, present.
It's me. It's us.
"I commissioned it," Gabriel says quietly from behind me. "From an artist I've admired for years. I gave her photographs, descriptions, tried to explain what I wanted to capture. I don't know if she succeeded. I don't know if anyone could capture what you are to me."
I can't speak. My throat is too tight, my eyes burning with tears I can't seem to stop.
"You don't have to keep it," he continues, and for the first time, I hear uncertainty in his voice. "If you hate it, if it feels like too much, I can—"
"It's perfect." The words come out broken, barely audible. "Gabriel, it'sperfect."
I turn to face him, and I see my own emotion reflected back at me—the overwhelming, terrifying, beautiful weight of what we've built together.
"I love you," I tell him, for the hundredth time, for the thousandth time, knowing I'll say it a million more times before we're done. "I love you, and I love our daughter, and I love this life we're making. Even the dark parts. Even the scary parts. All of it."
He pulls me into his arms—carefully, always so carefully now, mindful of the belly between us—and holds me like I'm the most precious thing in the world.
"I don't deserve you," he murmurs against my hair.
"Probably not."
"I'll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of you anyway."
"I know." I pull back, smiling up at him through my tears. "That's why I stay."
***
The weekend arrives faster than expected, and with it, Josiah and Benedict.
I watch from the library window as their cars pull up the drive—Josiah's sleek black Mercedes, Benedict's slightly flashier Aston Martin. Even in their choice of vehicles, their personalities are evident.
Gabriel joins me at the window, his hand finding mine.
"Nervous?" he asks.
"Should I be?"
"No. They already approve of you. Josiah told me as much last month—said you were 'acceptable,' which from him is practically a declaration of love."
"And Benedict?"
