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“I don’t care,” he says simply, slicing through the what-ifs like they’re paper-thin. “It’s no one’s business but ours.”

And just like that, something deep inside me cracks. The part that’s been locked up tighter than a high-security vault. The part still bleeding from a betrayal I didn’t see coming.

Because this—him—feels like a risk and a promise wrapped in the same damn kiss.

And I don’t know what scares me more.

How much I want it…

Or how much I already believe him.

Chapter Six

MYA

There’s nothing quite like the feeling of coming home with aching feet, swollen ankles, and shopping bags digging into my wrists—only to be reminded that Harry, the doorman, is more of a knight in shining armor than any man I’ve ever dated.

“Miss Mya,” he says, spotting me as I wobble through the foyer of Kingston’s building like a woman whose center of gravity has officially shifted. “You sure you don’t want help with those?”

I glance at the pile of Holt Renfrew, Aritzia, and Baby Boutique bags hanging from both arms like designer saddlebags and sigh. “I’ll take you up on that, Harry. If you carry them, I’ll name a twin after you.”

He chuckles, old and warm, and takes the bags like they’re made of feathers. “Better make it the good one.”

We head toward the elevator, but I stop dead in my tracks before we get there.

Because there—sitting ramrod straight on one of the lobby’s velvet chairs—is my mother.

Clad in tailored black slacks, a cream silk blouse, and a matching blazer. Her brown hair is curled to perfection, makeup flawless, lips pursed in that subtle way that means she’s already judging everything. Including me.

“Mom?” I blink. Like I might’ve hallucinated her into existence. “What are you doing here?”

She stands, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her blazer like she’s about to step into a church meeting instead of confronting the daughter she’s barely spoken to in months. “I came to make peace,” she says, voice too even to be honest. “Your father said he’d come home if I did.”

Oh. Of course.

Before I can say anything scathing, Harry politely clears his throat and nods toward the elevator. “I’ll take these up for you.”

“Thanks, Harry.” My voice is tight.

The elevator doors hiss open, and I step in, tension coiled so tight inside me I’m pretty sure I could shatter glass if I screamed. My hands are full—shopping bags dangling from my arms like ornaments on an overburdened Christmas tree.

When the doors open again, my mother follows me wordlessly, her heels clicking against the polished marble floor of Kingston’s private hallway like a judgmental metronome.

I swipe the key card and push open the door to the penthouse, the familiar scent of sandalwood and expensive cologne wrapping around me the second I step inside.

Kingston.

It’s like breathing him in even when he’s not here. Like the space remembers him.

I slip off my shoes with a sigh, kicking them gently to the side of the entryway. The babies in my stomach flutter with something I can’t name—maybe exhaustion, maybe anticipation. I was supposed to be doing something relaxing tonight. Nesting. Shopping for swaddles I don’t need. Daydreaming about the gender-neutral nursery Kingston and I have been pinning ideas for—mint green walls, soft gray rocking chairs, golden wooden accents. I haven’t felt this excited in weeks.

And now?

Now my mother is standing in the foyer, arms folded like she’s bracing herself for war.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I say, dropping my bags gently near the kitchen island. “What are you really doing here?”

She lifts her chin like she’s a guest in the home of a political rival she’s willing to entertain for optics. “I told you. I came to make peace.”