Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
When he turns toward the counter, I follow, the small swell of my stomach brushing his arm as I step closer. He tells the saleswoman to send everything to his place.
“You know,” I murmur, “I don’t even live with you.”
His lips curve slightly, a flash of amusement in his eyes. “You do now.”
There’s no hesitation in his voice, no question. I realize that somewhere between last night’s fear and this morning’s argument, something has shifted. We are officially a couple. He was absolutely serious about marrying me, and this is just the beginning of what will likely be a very extravagant life.
We wander into another shop, this one filled with maternity clothes. I’ve been avoiding the thought of buying any, wearing oversized sweaters and stretchy leggings instead, but Damien takes one look at the display and steers me inside. I find dresses, soft cardigans, and even a silk robe I can’t imagine wearing anywhere but behind closed doors. Each time I look at a price tag, he silences me with a look that holds the same mix of stubbornness and care.
At some point, I catch him watching me in the mirror as I try on a pale blue dress that drapes over my growing stomach. He looks proud and possessive. It sends a shiver through me that I try to hide as I smooth the fabric over my hips.
When I step out of the dressing room, he’s already talking to the saleswoman about having everything delivered. I don’t even bother arguing this time.
We spend the afternoon moving through stores. He continues at the same unhurried, unbothered pace, spending money like water. The longer we shop together, the more public our relationship becomes.
We hold hands as we cross the street. He kisses me when we pick out a bassinet. He slips his arm around my shoulders when we stop for coffee, pulling me close against his side. I’m his, not a possession but something more precious.
By the time we head back to the penthouse, the city is painted in shades of gold, the sun catching on glass and steel. The back of the car is filled with shopping bags, though most of the purchases are already on their way to his place.
I lean into him, my head resting against his shoulder, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe that we might actually get to have a beautiful future together.
By the end of the day, we’re both exhausted and starving. Damien keeps one hand loose on the wheel and the other resting over my knee as we drive down a narrow road toward some local hole-in-the-wall he swears by.
The city behind us keeps humming, but here the sound falls away until there is only the faint whistle of wind sneaking along the seams of the doors. The hedges start to press in, the pavement narrows, the light ahead dies, and the part of me that has learned to listen to silence sits up and looks around.
Damien’s fingers flex once against my knee. He has already seen it, whatever it is. The car slows by a few miles an hour. I feel the shift in him long before anything else changes. His attention sharpens, the easy conversation from a minute ago folding away. I reach for my seatbelt and drag it tighter across my chest, and he notices and gives a small nod that says good.
Headlights appear behind us, then drop back, then appear again. The movement has a rhythm that is wrong. Damien flicks his gaze to the rearview and checks the side mirror. A second pair of lights slides into view ahead, parked across a side lane, and the angle makes my skin tighten along my arms.
The road narrows again. The hedges press closer. The streetlamps thin out until the space between them feels like a tunnel. Damien eases off the gas and glances once at the phone in the console. He unlocks it without looking. The screen lights up his knuckles as he opens an unfamiliar app and holds it low against his thigh.
The road bends left, and that is where the van waits. Its paint is the color of wet concrete, windows blacked out, back doors shut tight. It is parked crosswise like a fallen tree. We are already too close. Damien brakes, smooth and controlled. I feel the car’s weight shift forward and settle.
The headlights smear across the van’s side and catch on something metallic stacked near the rear bumper. The shape registers a beat later. A generator. Coiled cords. A saw with a blade that looks like a bright silver coin. The streetlight above us hums and flickers. Somewhere in the hedges, a trapped bird rustles and goes still.
Damien’s voice drops to that low register that cuts through noise.
“Hold onto the belt,” he says. “Head down, hands over your ears if glass breaks. Do not open the door unless I tell you.”