Chapter 50
Mary
“I’m going to look like a disco ball, aren’t I?”
I’m standing in the back room of NOIR, wearing a white silk robe that probably costs more than my rent used to, staring at myself in a floor-to-ceiling mirror.
My heart is pounding.
Not the romantic kind. Not the “Oh, I’m about to see the love of my life” kind.
More like the “I’m about to be dressed by a man whose aesthetic includes phrases like ‘more is more’ and ‘subtlety is for cowards’” kind.
Jasper appears in the mirror behind me. Champagne in one hand. Measuring tape in the other.
“Sugar tits, if I wanted you to look like a disco ball, I’d cover you in actual mirrors. Give me some credit.”
“You literally wanted to put me in sequins yesterday.”
“That was yesterday. Today is your thirtieth birthday. Different energy.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
He sets down his champagne and circles me like a shark. “Arms up.”
I lift my arms. He measures my bust.
Pauses.
Measures again.
“Jesus Christ, Mary. Did your boobs grow overnight?”
“Pregnancy does that.”
“Well, they’re doing the Lord’s work. Sugar tits is officially an understatement. We’re in sugar watermelons territory. You went from a solid C to… what is this? DD? E?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been avoiding bra shopping.”
“That explains the sports bra situation.” He tugs at the strap visible under my robe. “We’re burning this later.”
“It’s comfortable.”
“It’s a crime against humanity.” He measures my waist. Then stops. Studies my stomach. “You’re showing.”
“A little.”
“It’s adorable.”
“It’s terrifying.”
“Same thing.” He writes down numbers on a notepad. “Okay. So. Curvier everywhere. Boobs that could cause traffic accidents. A tiny baby bump that makes you look like a fertility goddess. And hair that’s finally grown past your shoulders.” He taps his pen against his lips. “I’m thinking—”
“Nothing sparkly.”
“I wasn’t going to say sparkly.”
“Nothing tight.”
“Mary—”
“Nothing with cutouts or slits or—”
“Do you want to pick your own outfit?” He crosses his arms. “Because I can just point you to the clearance rack and you can grab whatever black sack appeals to you.”
I glare at him. He grins back.
“That’s what I thought. Now sit.” He points to the velvet chair. “And trust me.”
“The last time you said that, I ended up in leather pants.”
“And you looked amazing.”
“I couldn’t sit down.”
“Beauty is pain, sugar tits.”
I sit. Reluctantly.
Jasper disappears into the main showroom. I hear him moving racks. Muttering to himself. The sound of hangers scraping.
I look around the back room. NOIR has changed since the last time I was here.
Everything is bright pink now. Hot pink. The walls. The furniture. Even the champagne flutes have pink stems.
It’s aggressive. Unapologetically bold. Very Jasper.
“When did you redecorate?” I call out.
“Last month!” he yells back. “Do you love it?”
“It’s very… pink.”
“That’s a yes.”
“That’s a ‘my retinas are burning.’”
“Same thing!”
I catch my reflection again. Longer hair. Fuller face. Curves that weren’t there two months ago.
I look different. Not bad different. Just… different.
More.
More of everything.
Jasper returns carrying a garment bag. Sets it on the table. Unzips it slowly.
I brace myself. Prepare for tulle. Or fringe. Or some unholy combination of both.
He pulls out a dress.
I blink.
It’s… simple.
Cream-colored. Soft fabric. Long sleeves. Midi-length. A subtle drape at the waist that would hide the bump without making it look like I’m hiding it.
“This?” I ask.
“This.”
“It’s not sparkly.”
“I know.”
“Or tight.”
“I know.”
“Or… Jasper-y.”
He smiles. “Today isn’t about being Jasper-y. Today is about being Mary-y.” He holds it up against me. “Classic. Elegant. Comfortable enough that you won’t want to murder me by hour two.”
My throat tightens. “You hate simple.”
“I don’t hate simple. I hate boring. This isn’t boring. This is Grace Kelly meeting Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy with a touch of ‘I’m pregnant and glowing and if you look at me wrong, my bodyguards will end you.’”
I almost laugh. Almost cry. “I love it.”
“Good. Because if you said no, I had seventeen backup options and all of them have sequins.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m dressed.
Hair styled in loose waves. Minimal makeup—just enough to look alive. The dress fits perfectly. Skims my curves without clinging. Makes me look like a person instead of a pregnancy announcement.
Jasper steps back. Studies me. “Oh, sugar tits. If I were straight, I’d be in serious trouble right now.”
“Don’t call me that while looking at my boobs.”
“I’m gay. It doesn’t count.” He adjusts the neckline. “But seriously. You look devastating. Anton’s going to lose his mind.”
The name lands like a punch.
Anton.
Who isn’t here.
Who’s supposed to be coming home today but hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted. Nothing.
Jasper sees my face. “Hey. He’s coming.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know him. He keeps his promises.”
“What if—?”
“No.” He turns me to face the mirror. “No what-ifs today. Today you’re thirty. Today you’re beautiful. Today you’re surrounded by people who love you. That’s enough.”
I stare at myself. At this version of me I barely recognize.
Thirty years old. Pregnant. In love with a man who might be dead.
But standing. Still standing.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
He squeezes my shoulder. “Good. Now let’s go. Your public awaits.”
The main showroom has been transformed.
Balloons everywhere. Pink and gold. A banner that says HAPPY 30TH in glittery letters. A table covered in food—none of which I recognize as Jasper’s usual aesthetic of “small portions on oversized plates.”
This is real food. Comfort food. Grandma’s food.
Grandma’s standing by the champagne display, talking to Ruth. Lev and Dima are near the door, looking uncomfortable in a room full of pink.
And then I see him.
Standing next to Jasper’s desk. Tall. Gorgeous. Wearing a perfectly tailored navy suit.
Dark skin. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes that could melt steel. Hair cut close, fade perfect. The kind of handsome that makes you forget how to breathe.
He looks like he walked out of a Ralph Lauren campaign. Like someone sculpted him specifically to ruin lives.
“Who is that?” I whisper.
Jasper grins. “That’s Mateo.”
“Mateo?”
“My boyfriend.”
I turn to stare at him. “Since when do you have a boyfriend?”
“Since three weeks ago. Keep up.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“You were busy having an emotional breakdown. I didn’t want to rub my happiness in your face.”
Mateo sees us. Smiles. Walks over.
And oh God, he moves like he’s in slow motion. Confident. Smooth. Devastating.
“You must be Mary,” he says. His voice is warm. Accented. Perfect.
“I… Yes. Mary. That’s me.” I’m stammering. Why am I stammering?
“Jasper talks about you constantly.” He extends his hand. I shake it. His grip is firm. “Happy birthday.”
“Thank you.”
“Mateo’s a photographer,” Jasper adds. Proudly. Like a kid showing off a science project. “Editorial. Fashion. He shot that Vogue spread last month. The one with Zendaya.”
“That was you?” My voice comes out too high.
Mateo shrugs. Modest. “I had a good subject.”
“He’s being humble,” Jasper says. “He’s brilliant. Also hot. Have you noticed he’s hot?”
“Jas—”
“Because he’s very hot. Like stupidly hot. Like ‘I still can’t believe he’s dating me’ hot.”
Mateo laughs. Puts his arm around Jasper’s waist. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
They look at each other. And there’s something there. Something real.
Something that makes my chest ache.
Because that’s what I have with Anton. That look. That ease.
And he’s not here.
“Mary!” Grandma’s voice cuts through. She’s waving me over. “Come here. Let me look at you.”
I cross the room. She takes my hands. Studies me from head to toe.
“Beautiful,” she says simply. “Absolutely beautiful.”
“Jasper did all the work.”
“Jasper dressed you. But you’re the one wearing it.” She touches my cheek. “Thirty looks good on you, Mary-Cat.”
My eyes burn. “Does it?”
“It does.”
Ruth appears with a plate. “Eat. You’ve barely eaten today.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat anyway.”
I take the plate. Mini sandwiches. Fruit. A slice of cake that’s definitely Grandma’s recipe.
Lev materializes at my elbow. “Boss would want you to eat.”
“Boss isn’t here.”
“He will be.”
I want to believe that. Want to believe he’s walking through that door any second.
But he’s not.
And I’m turning thirty without him.
Jasper appears at my other side, surveying the room. “This is officially the straightest party I’ve ever thrown. There’s not a single boa in sight. I’m embarrassed.”
“There are balloons,” I point out.
“Pink balloons. That’s the bare minimum.” He gestures at Lev and Dima. “And those two look like they’re guarding a witness, not celebrating. Where’s the energy?”
“The energy is watching two Russian mobsters try not to touch anything in your boutique.”
“Fair point. That is mildly entertaining.” He sips his champagne. “Still. Next year, we’re doing this properly. Feathers. Glitter.
A theme.” “Next year I’ll have a baby.”
“Even better. Baby’s first pride parade.” He turns to the others. “Alright, everyone!” Jasper claps his hands. “Time for presents!”
“We’re doing presents?”
“Of course we’re doing presents. What kind of birthday doesn’t have presents?”
He starts pulling out gift bags. Grandma’s is first—a hand-knitted baby blanket. Soft. Yellow. Perfect.
Ruth gives me prenatal vitamins and a book on childbirth that I’m definitely not reading.
Lev and Dima go together—a knife. Small. Razor-sharp. Russian-made.
“For protection,” Dima says.
“It’s a birthday party, not a mobster convention,” Jasper mutters.
“Every party is a mobster convention when you’re with us,” Lev replies.
Mateo gives me a framed photograph. Black and white. A woman’s hands cradling her pregnant belly. Artistic. Beautiful.
“For when you’re ready,” he says. “I’d love to photograph you. Maternity shoot. Whenever you want.”
I stare at it. At the intimacy captured in the image. “Thank you.”
Jasper’s last. He hands me a small box.
I open it.
Inside: a necklace. Delicate gold chain. A tiny charm in the shape of a rolling pin.
I burst out laughing. “A rolling pin?”
“You’re a baker. You’re going to be a mom. You’re rolling things out—dough, life, whatever.” He shrugs. “It felt right.”
I put it on. It sits perfectly at my collarbone.
“I love it,” I say.
“Good. Because I can’t return it.”
Everyone laughs. The room feels warm. Full. Alive.
And I realize something.
This is my family now. This bizarre collection of people who shouldn’t fit together but somehow do.
A grandmother. A nurse. Two Russian enforcers. A fashion designer and his photographer boyfriend.
And me. Pregnant. Thirty. Waiting for a man who might not come back.
But not alone.
Never alone.
“Make a wish,” Grandma says, lighting candles on the cake.
I close my eyes.
Come home. Please just come home.
I blow out the candles.
Everyone cheers.