Chapter 30
Roxy
“Do you need anything else?” I put my head inside Corm’s doors.
“How many times do I have to remind you, this is your company? You don’t need my permission to leave.” He stands up and puts on his jacket. “In fact, I’m fucking off as well.”
I made it. I’m a partner. The word still feels unreal in my mouth.
It cost me more than I care to admit, but it’s all been worth it.
“Any plans for the weekend?” Corm asks as we step into the elevator.
“Apartment hunting, and then a dreaded family meeting.” I shiver at the idea.
The first scares me, because things between me and Liam are progressing without my explicit consent. Or maybe without my resistance.
In a sense, we became experts at avoidance. The careful kind. Measured. Polite. Considerate to the point of suffocation.
Liam gives me space. And me? I don’t know how to step into it.
The later weekend commitment is worse, though. Our families are meeting to discuss the nuptials. God help me.
“That sounds like fun.” Corm smirks. “Have you ever found out what Stone’s agenda was at Merge?”
“Me,” I respond to fuck with him, but as the word slips out, its effect lands in my stomach. I expect irritation. Indigestion. Anything but this.
A kaleidoscope of butterflies launches amok.
Jesus.
“I regret I asked,” Corm mutters, and rushes outside the elevator, marching past Liam with a curt nod.
My fiancé stands, leaning his shoulder against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other. A sin wrapped in a suit with a fuck-it attitude.
The sight is arresting. I wish my body would keep up with my brain and understand we need to keep the walls up.
But lately, I’m not sure if even my heart is on my side anymore.
He pushes off the wall and prowls to me with measured steps, owning the room. The butterflies tickle around.
“Ready?” He kisses my cheek.
“Not really.”
He frowns. “We can reschedule.”
“And continue living at your brother’s?” I roll my eyes.
“Or you can go home, and I’ll narrow down the search and present you with the top two choices.” He shrugs.
I’m pretty sure my jaw is close to the floor. Did this man just offer to shoulder the entire burden so I don’t have to? Without demanding? Without insisting?
I won’t accept the offer. This is my future home.
The fact that he offered sends another flutter through my chest. If this continues, my stomach will turn into a full-blown butterfly sanctuary.
My future home.
The idea scares the butterflies away.
“Let’s get this over with.”
“Curb your enthusiasm,” he mutters.
I’m not sure if he wanted me to hear it—not the words, but the subtle resignation behind them. He keeps spending his patience without knowing if he’ll ever be repaid. Just how long will he stand by me before he runs?
What if I never give him what he expects?
The real estate agent talks about natural light and good bones and investment potential, her voice blending into the city noise as we trail behind her through another immaculate Manhattan apartment.
“This one faces south,” she chirps, pulling back sheer curtains.
Sunlight spills across hardwood floors. Clean. Bright. Empty.
Liam stops short of the window, hands in his pockets. He doesn’t move closer to me. He hasn’t, once.
I notice everything now. The way he waits. The way he stands close enough, but doesn’t reach.
The way he watches my face instead of the space. He doesn’t hold my hand. But he stays close enough for me to reach for his. I don’t. I want to. I think.
But I need to answer the question that is holding me back first. Then I can move forward.
How can I let him in without losing myself?
This is unfamiliar territory. I’m good at protecting my autonomy. Fighting for it. But this? How can I excel at something I have no roadmap for?
“This would make a great nursery,” the agent adds lightly, already flipping pages on her tablet.
I’m not sure if I hate the process, or the idea of finding a space I will have to share with someone.
It makes no sense. We’ve been living together, and well… it scares me, but it hasn’t been bad. It’s been the opposite. I don’t know how to reconcile that.
You became dangerous to everything I thought kept me alive. But I don’t regret a moment of it.
That’s what Liam told me. Can I allow him to do the same to me? All these questions are pissing me off. The indecisiveness of it is infuriating. It makes me vulnerable, and that is not acceptable.
I study the view as if it was the most important feature, the agent droning somewhere in the background.
Liam slides behind me. “Fuck, she is too chirpy. Just say the word, and I will replace her.”
His breath on my neck is distracting. And comforting.
And it hits me. He’s being patient. Not pressuring. Not forcing. Not deciding for me. But that clouds my judgment.
He is doing everything right… and I’m waiting for him to fuck up and finally prove that I need to do this alone.
I turn around. “Would you like the nursery here?”
He studies me for a moment. “Is that what you’re really thinking?”
“Now you’re a mind reader?” I say, the tone sharper than I intended.
“I don’t need to be a mind reader to know you would sell your kidney for a ticket out of here.”
“Would we be here if I weren’t pregnant?” I blurt out.
“I hope we would. But I guess we will never know.” He kisses my forehead.
“How much is it anyway?” It’s not the most pressing problem here. But still, it is a problem. I can’t currently afford it.
“I’m sure we can figure out a loan.” He squeezes my hand.
He doesn’t offer to pay for it, though I’m sure he wants to. But he only makes a move I’m willing to accept. Damn him.
“Do you want to bail?” he asks, smirking.
From apartment hunting, or from this relationship? In both cases, my answer is no. And yet I can’t say it.
“Are you trying to use my natural competitiveness against me?” I keep things light. Inconsequential. Safe.
Though safe doesn’t feel right lately.
“Never,” he deadpans.
“Let’s move on.” I push him away and march out of the apartment, the agent’s heels and panting echoing as she tries to keep up.
We need an apartment. We need a nursery. I’ve barely come to terms with the fact that I’m going to be a mother. And now I have to pretend to be a wife.
Liam promised the marriage is fake, but it’s not for him. And as much as I try to protect myself, it isn’t for me.
It doesn’t feel real either.
The next apartment has a large kitchen and a terrace.
Liam is inspecting the appliances and the cabinets. “This kitchen is fantastic.”
“I don’t cook,” I snap. I don’t even know why.
He chuckles. “I’ve noticed.”
I step outside, drawn by the quiet. I should enjoy this. Instead, I’m restless. Irritated.
Mostly with myself.
A few months ago, I was fighting for something entirely different. I was proving I belonged at Merged, carving out a career that was mine alone. I was untangling myself from my family’s expectations.
I had a plan. It was deliberate. Independent. Earned.
None of this was part of it. I want this baby. Liam has shown up in ways I didn’t know how to ask for. Steady. Present. Certain.
And still, something inside me aches. Not because I regret them, but because I’m grieving the version of my life I thought I would have.
The climb. The late nights. The independence that felt like oxygen.
That grief sparks immediate guilt. This baby isn’t a mistake. This relationship… well, I hope it isn’t a mistake.
Yet my mind keeps circling the what-ifs like they’re debts I owe. It’s exhausting.
The city hums below, distant and alive. For a moment, I forget to guard myself.
“This would be nice,” I murmur.
“For mornings?” Liam asks, staying just inside the door.
I glance at him. “For breathing.”
He smiles—not triumphant, not hopeful. Just soft. “Tee could have a room upstairs.”
He’s not selling it. He’s offering information. I don’t know why that tightens something in my chest.
By the fourth apartment, I’m exhausted.
Not from walking. From deciding. From constantly measuring what I’m allowed to want without accidentally leaning too far into him.
We linger near the kitchen island while the agent takes a call.
“You don’t like any of them,” Liam says quietly.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to.” He shrugs. “You keep standing near exits.”
I huff a weak laugh. “Independent-woman syndrome, I guess.”
He nods like that makes sense. Like it doesn’t scare him off. Silence settles between us again.
“Independence doesn’t mean you have to do everything alone, Little Thunder.”
I hate that he says it like a fact instead of a challenge.
“I wish I could believe that,” I whisper. The intimacy and fragility of my confession shake me. “I need to go back to work,” I lie.
He studies me, jaw flexing. Then he backs off. “Okay.”
Just like that.
God, I hate how much that matters.
When we leave the building, the agent chirps about sending listings and next steps. Liam thanks her, polite and distant.
Outside, the late afternoon air presses in. Warm. Real.
“I’ll text you later,” he says.
“I know.” I give him a soft smile.
We stand there for a beat too long. “I love you,” he adds.
I don’t look at him. “I know,” I repeat. But knowing isn’t the same as being ready.
As he walks away, something unsettles in my chest. Not loss. Not longing.
Fear. A different type of fear. For the first time, the future doesn’t feel like something I’m fighting.
It feels like something waiting.
And I don’t know yet how to step toward it without disappearing inside it.
The scratch on the coffee table is deep—more a dent than a blemish. I wonder what happened. Has it been there for long, or is it recent? Maybe it got banged up when it was delivered.
Liam’s mom gushes about venues, the guest list, flowers, her perfume too sweet for my nerves.
Or maybe the table witnessed a family drama—someone throwing it across the room. That would snap everyone here out of this charade.
I don’t know if it was my father or the Stones who booked this room. It’s tasteful, like a seating salon. It still feels like a boardroom.