“No. Of course, it’s okay.” This time, I really mean it. She apologized, after all. And she’s donating a fortune to the foundation. “Besides, there’s going to be a huge crowd there. Maybe I won’t have to see her again.”
Damien chuckles. “I love you.”
“That’s a good thing, considering I’m having your baby.”
“How are you feeling?” I can hear the shift in his tone. Just the mention of the baby has lifted both our moods.
“Good, actually. I feel really good. Syl was just here, though. The word is out. You should call Jackson, and we should start telling our friends.”
“Agree. They should hear it from us. We can tell them when we call to invite them over for brunch.”
“And brunch will be one big celebration.” I glance at the clock. “I need to run. My client’s going to call any minute, and then I’m meeting Jamie for lunch. I’m going to try and work late and get caught up, but I may come home early.”
“Pregnancy exhaustion?”
“Try hormones,” I say. “And the way they’re hopping, you can expect me to jump you tonight.”
“As I said, I’m always happy to help you with anything you need during your pregnancy.”
“Very altruistic of you.”
“Later, Mrs. Stark. And I’m looking forward to an evening of therapeutic aerobic activity.”
I end the call and flip through my agenda for my notes. I’m still grinning when the phone chimes to signal an incoming text. I grimace, expecting that it’s my client texting to tell me the obvious—that he’s running incredibly late.
But when I pull up the phone, it’s not my client.
It’s not Damien either.
Instead, it’s my new text stalker. And the message makes me cringe:
What makes you think you deserve it?
11
I stare at the phone screen, bile churning in my gut. I hate this feeling—weak, exposed—and for one crazed moment, I imagine myself hurling my phone across the room to shatter against the far wall. I think about the hard plastic pieces, the raw edges as sharp as a knife.
And I think about how I can get this churning, nasty feeling under control. How I can calm myself. Center myself.
How I can use those shards of plastic as a lifeline to drag me back home.
No, no, a thousand times no.
That is not what I want. Cut, and whoever is baiting me wins.
Cut, and I’ll destroy everything I’ve accomplished with Damien by my side.
Most of all, if I cut, then what kind of model will I be for my child? I press my free hand over my belly, determined to safeguard this precious baby. This child I hadn’t expected but will now do anything to protect.
What makes you think you deserve it?
Once again, that vile message fills my head.
I toss the phone on the desk and put both hands over my baby, then force myself to take deep breaths.
I do deserve it, I think. I do, I do, I do.
But deserve what?
The job? My baby? My marriage?
“Oh, shit,” I whisper, as the synapses suddenly click into place. Giselle. It can’t be a coincidence that she showed up right about the time I got the first text. Can it?
I whirl around for my phone. Maybe I’ve hesitated to tell Damien so far, but I can’t wait any longer. Not if it’s Giselle behind all of this. Giselle, worming her way into the fundraiser. Into our lives.
But then I think about it, and Sofia seems an equally obvious suspect. Except that she’s all the way in the UK. So that probably takes her out of the running.
Either way, I have to let Damien know.
I snatch up the phone, then actually squeal when it rings in my hand.
For a moment, I’m certain that it’s her, calling to torment me. To warn me to stay silent. That she has plans for me, and if I’m not careful, she’ll spill all of my secrets to the world.
But then I see the caller ID—Ollie.
Eagerly, I press the button to answer the call. At the same time, Marge buzzes the intercom.
“Ollie, hang on. Yes, Marge?”
“Your ten o’clock just called to cancel. Apparently, he had some unexpected travel.”
“Tell him thanks for letting us know, and ask him to email me his availability.”
“No problem.”
She hangs up, and I move around my desk to collapse into my chair. It leans all the way back so that I can put my feet up, the kind of thing that would totally mortify my mother, but that I love.
“Listen to you, big shot,” Ollie says. “Bossing around the assistant.”
“You are such a jerk,” I say affectionately. “By the way, I saw your mom. She looks great.”
“You did? Where?”
“I was in Dallas. She didn’t tell you?”
“I’m trying a fraud case in New York. I’m wasting precious lunch hour prep to call and congratulate you. And to make sure you aren’t a little bit weirded out.”
I laugh, then put the phone on speaker so that baby Ashley can hear her uncle Ollie’s voice. We’ve had a few rough patches over the years, but at the heart of it, he’s still one of my best and oldest friends. And even though it took him a while to come around to Team Damien, I know that he’s not only got my back but that he truly understands that my husband does, too. “I appreciate the congrats. And, honestly, it was a shock at first, but now I’m looking forward to every step along the way.”
“Pretty fast, though, right? I mean, it’s going to be over before you know it.”
“Well, yeah.” I frown but decide that his odd questions stem from a Y-chromosome kind of place. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to savor the experience. Besides, nine months is almost a year. That doesn’t seem fast to me at all.”
“Nine? I thought it was a six-month deal.”
“Six? What—” I pull my feet off my desk and sit up. “Wait a sec, what are you talking about?”
“Me?” he counters. “What are you talking about?”
“The baby,” I say with a definite tone of duh in my voice.
“Baby?” he asks, and I’m certain I can hear the wheels turning in his head. “You’re having a baby?”
“I—yes. Wait. You really didn’t know?”
Damien chuckles. “I love you.”
“That’s a good thing, considering I’m having your baby.”
“How are you feeling?” I can hear the shift in his tone. Just the mention of the baby has lifted both our moods.
“Good, actually. I feel really good. Syl was just here, though. The word is out. You should call Jackson, and we should start telling our friends.”
“Agree. They should hear it from us. We can tell them when we call to invite them over for brunch.”
“And brunch will be one big celebration.” I glance at the clock. “I need to run. My client’s going to call any minute, and then I’m meeting Jamie for lunch. I’m going to try and work late and get caught up, but I may come home early.”
“Pregnancy exhaustion?”
“Try hormones,” I say. “And the way they’re hopping, you can expect me to jump you tonight.”
“As I said, I’m always happy to help you with anything you need during your pregnancy.”
“Very altruistic of you.”
“Later, Mrs. Stark. And I’m looking forward to an evening of therapeutic aerobic activity.”
I end the call and flip through my agenda for my notes. I’m still grinning when the phone chimes to signal an incoming text. I grimace, expecting that it’s my client texting to tell me the obvious—that he’s running incredibly late.
But when I pull up the phone, it’s not my client.
It’s not Damien either.
Instead, it’s my new text stalker. And the message makes me cringe:
What makes you think you deserve it?
11
I stare at the phone screen, bile churning in my gut. I hate this feeling—weak, exposed—and for one crazed moment, I imagine myself hurling my phone across the room to shatter against the far wall. I think about the hard plastic pieces, the raw edges as sharp as a knife.
And I think about how I can get this churning, nasty feeling under control. How I can calm myself. Center myself.
How I can use those shards of plastic as a lifeline to drag me back home.
No, no, a thousand times no.
That is not what I want. Cut, and whoever is baiting me wins.
Cut, and I’ll destroy everything I’ve accomplished with Damien by my side.
Most of all, if I cut, then what kind of model will I be for my child? I press my free hand over my belly, determined to safeguard this precious baby. This child I hadn’t expected but will now do anything to protect.
What makes you think you deserve it?
Once again, that vile message fills my head.
I toss the phone on the desk and put both hands over my baby, then force myself to take deep breaths.
I do deserve it, I think. I do, I do, I do.
But deserve what?
The job? My baby? My marriage?
“Oh, shit,” I whisper, as the synapses suddenly click into place. Giselle. It can’t be a coincidence that she showed up right about the time I got the first text. Can it?
I whirl around for my phone. Maybe I’ve hesitated to tell Damien so far, but I can’t wait any longer. Not if it’s Giselle behind all of this. Giselle, worming her way into the fundraiser. Into our lives.
But then I think about it, and Sofia seems an equally obvious suspect. Except that she’s all the way in the UK. So that probably takes her out of the running.
Either way, I have to let Damien know.
I snatch up the phone, then actually squeal when it rings in my hand.
For a moment, I’m certain that it’s her, calling to torment me. To warn me to stay silent. That she has plans for me, and if I’m not careful, she’ll spill all of my secrets to the world.
But then I see the caller ID—Ollie.
Eagerly, I press the button to answer the call. At the same time, Marge buzzes the intercom.
“Ollie, hang on. Yes, Marge?”
“Your ten o’clock just called to cancel. Apparently, he had some unexpected travel.”
“Tell him thanks for letting us know, and ask him to email me his availability.”
“No problem.”
She hangs up, and I move around my desk to collapse into my chair. It leans all the way back so that I can put my feet up, the kind of thing that would totally mortify my mother, but that I love.
“Listen to you, big shot,” Ollie says. “Bossing around the assistant.”
“You are such a jerk,” I say affectionately. “By the way, I saw your mom. She looks great.”
“You did? Where?”
“I was in Dallas. She didn’t tell you?”
“I’m trying a fraud case in New York. I’m wasting precious lunch hour prep to call and congratulate you. And to make sure you aren’t a little bit weirded out.”
I laugh, then put the phone on speaker so that baby Ashley can hear her uncle Ollie’s voice. We’ve had a few rough patches over the years, but at the heart of it, he’s still one of my best and oldest friends. And even though it took him a while to come around to Team Damien, I know that he’s not only got my back but that he truly understands that my husband does, too. “I appreciate the congrats. And, honestly, it was a shock at first, but now I’m looking forward to every step along the way.”
“Pretty fast, though, right? I mean, it’s going to be over before you know it.”
“Well, yeah.” I frown but decide that his odd questions stem from a Y-chromosome kind of place. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to savor the experience. Besides, nine months is almost a year. That doesn’t seem fast to me at all.”
“Nine? I thought it was a six-month deal.”
“Six? What—” I pull my feet off my desk and sit up. “Wait a sec, what are you talking about?”
“Me?” he counters. “What are you talking about?”
“The baby,” I say with a definite tone of duh in my voice.
“Baby?” he asks, and I’m certain I can hear the wheels turning in his head. “You’re having a baby?”
“I—yes. Wait. You really didn’t know?”
