Chapter 19
April
Twenty-four hours ago, I watched two thin pink lines appear on a cheap plastic stick and felt my entire life tilt on its axis.
Tonight, I’m walking down a Manhattan sidewalk toward a restaurant that looks like it was designed by people who think the word “exclusive” is foreplay, and I’m pretending, badly, that nothing has changed.
Anthony is already outside when I arrive, hands in the pockets of his dark coat, shoulders squared against the cold.
The building behind him is all glass and polished marble.
It looks like somewhere I don’t belong. When he spots me, his face shifts, not enough for anyone else to register, but I see it.
His eyes soften, and the tension in his jaw releases.
He walks toward me, and before my brain can decide how to behave now that the board knows, his hand settles on my lower back like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s allowed.
“You’re late,” he says, but his voice is low and warm.
“I’m on time,” I counter, glancing pointedly at the time on my phone. “You’re just chronically impatient.”
His mouth twitches. “I’m efficient.”
“You’re a control freak.”
He leans in slightly, just close enough that his breath warms my cheek.
“And yet you agreed to dinner.” My pulse does that stupid little hop it’s been doing since I peed on the test. I swallow and force brightness into my voice.
“Because I like free food.” Anthony huffs like he’s amused, then guides me inside.
The doorman greets him by name; like he’s a regular here. It shouldn’t grate on me, but it does.
We’re escorted past a sea of low-lit tables, past people who are too polished to look real.
We walk to a corner booth with enough privacy to make my skin prickle.
Anthony pulls my chair out, waits for me to sit, then sits across from me like the world hasn’t been quietly rearranging itself inside my body all day.
My hands shake when I pick up the menu. The paper is thick and expensive.
The font is delicate. The prices are nonexistent.
I stare at it like I’ve never seen food before.
My stomach is unpredictable. It’s either rolling with nausea or hollow with hunger so sharp it feels like a threat.
I don’t know which version of it I am getting right now.
I don’t know if I’m going to devour everything in sight or gag at the smell of butter.
I spent three hours this morning on my bathroom floor expelling my guts and lying about being on an errand.
Anthony watches me in silence for a moment. “You look like you’re about to negotiate with it.”
“I don’t know what any of these words mean,” I say, scanning a description that sounds like someone wrote it while smelling their own importance. “Is this fish? Or is it a metaphor?”
“It’s fish,” he says dryly. “Everything here is fish or beef, just dressed up to feel superior. Your entire job is the English language, April.”
I glance up, startled by the fact that he’s joking, or at least trying to.
A laugh almost slips out of me, but it catches.
I force it down and replace it with a smile that feels too practiced.
“Look at you,” I say, leaning into the banter like it’s a life raft.
“Making jokes again. Are you feeling okay? Should I call a doctor?”
His eyes narrow, amused. “You have one line, and you keep recycling it.”
“It’s a good line.”
“It’s mediocre.”
I gasp, feigning offense. “Excuse you?”
He studies me with that measuring gaze that makes me feel like he can see through my deflections. “You’re trying too hard.”
My smile stiffens. “Am I?”
“Yes.” He reaches for his water, expression calm, voice too even. “You’ve been off all day.”
The restaurant suddenly feels too warm and bright. “I’m fine.”
“Mm.” He doesn’t look convinced.
The waiter appears, quick and silent, asking about drinks.
Before Anthony can rattle off more than his own order for wine, before he can decide for me like he’s done every other time we’ve eaten together, I hear myself say, “Just water for me, please.” The words land like a dropped bomb.
Anthony slowly turns his head, settling his eyes on me.
The waiter nods, glides away, and the moment the space between us is private again, Anthony purses his lips. “Why?”
I shrug too casually. “I don’t want wine.”
“You always want wine.”
“Not tonight.”
His gaze dips to my mouth, then back up. “Are you pregnant?”
My throat closes. Of course he goes directly there, to that question. He asks it like he’s ripping off a bandage. He is a man who thrives on directness and treats discomfort like an inconvenience he can bulldoze through.
I try to force a laugh. “No.”
Anthony is as still as stone. He doesn’t blink or move, just watches me.
“No,” I repeat, firmer this time, like I’m repeating it will somehow make it true.
His jaw tightens. “April.” The way he says my name is different; he’s not teasing me anymore, he’s demanding an answer. “I’m not,” I insist, staring down at the menu so I don’t have to look at him. “It’s probably stress or something…my stomach’s weird. You know.”
“You were meant to start your period a week and a half ago,” he says, voice low and controlled. “And you haven’t.”
My fingers clamp around the menu hard enough to crease it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.” His tone sharpens, just slightly. “We’ve been tracking your ovulation. We’ve had sex three times this week. I know your cycle, April.”
Heat floods my face, half in humiliation, half in anger, and a sprinkling of something else, but I don’t know what it is. I hate the reminder that my body has become a schedule, a project, a timeline he can audit. “I didn’t ask you to memorize my uterus,” I snap.
His eyes darken. “Then stop lying to me.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You are.” His voice drops, dangerous in its calm. “Tell me the truth.”
The pressure in my chest spikes, the restaurant suddenly closing in around us. The clink of silverware from other tables, the low murmur of conversations, the faint music; everything feels too loud and too normal for what’s happening in our booth.
I shove the menu down. “I need the bathroom.”
“April—”
I slide out of the booth before he can stop me, my chair scraping on the floor, and I walk away with my spine stiff and my pulse roaring.
The bathroom is exactly what you’d expect in a place like this. It’s private, silent, lit like a perfume commercial. Marble counters, gold fixtures, a little couch no one should ever sit on, thick towels folded like origami swans.
I grip the edge of the sink and stare at myself in the mirror.
My eyes are too bright. My cheeks are flushed.
I look guilty. I take a deep breath, willing myself to calm down.
It’s not that I don’t want to tell him. It’s that I want one more night where it's just me and him. Where I can pretend this isn’t going to change everything.
Where I can enjoy the way he looks at me now without the ticking clock of pregnant hanging over us like a guillotine.
A knock sounds at the door. Then, before I can answer, the lock clicks.
Anthony steps inside and closes the door behind him.
I hear him thank someone, probably a waiter who unlocked the door for him.
His presence fills the room so completely that it feels like the air rearranges in order to accommodate him.
His expression is controlled, but there’s an edge under it, a tautness that tells me I’ve finally hit a line.
“Tell me the truth,” he says, voice quiet.
I lift my chin. “You can’t just follow me in here.”
“I can,” he replies, flat. “And I did.”
My heart hammers. “You’re acting insane.”
His eyes scan down my face like he’s cataloguing every little detail. “You’re acting guilty.”
“I’m acting—” I cut myself off. “You don’t get to interrogate me like I’m your employee right now.”
His mouth tightens. “You don’t get to disappear from the table when I ask you a direct question.”
“I said I’m not pregnant.”
“You said it too fast.” He steps closer, and my spine presses instinctively against the marble counter behind me.
His gaze is heavy, commanding. It’s the same look that makes people in boardrooms shut their mouths mid-sentence.
“You were different when you were texting me earlier. You were quiet in the office. You’re avoiding me.
You’re refusing wine. You’re nauseous. Your period is late. ”
“I wasn’t—”
“You’re defensive.” He’s close enough that I can feel heat radiating from him. “And you’ve been off all day.”
I hate that he notices. I hate that he reads me so easily when I’ve spent months trying to be unreadable to him. “Why are you pressing me so hard on this?” I shoot back. My voice trembles with anger that’s too sharp for how scared I suddenly feel. “Can we just have one night of normalcy?”
He clenches his jaw and says, “No.”
The single word is blunt. Honest.
“Why?” I demand, even though my throat is tight and my eyes are stinging, and I hate myself for it. “Just give me one night, and tomorrow you can press me and dig into what’s in my head and win the fight.” Anthony’s gaze snaps up, fierce. “This isn’t about winning.”
“That’s funny,” I say, the words brittle.
“Because it feels like it.” He steps even closer, so close that the front of his coat brushes my thighs.
His hand lifts, not to touch me at first, but to brace beside my shoulder on the counter, caging me in without technically trapping me.
The heat from him sparks across my skin like electricity, anger and want braided together. “Look at me,” he orders.
I refuse on instinct, staring at the gold faucet like it’s fascinating. His other hand comes up gently and cups my jaw, turning my face toward him, anyway. His grip is firm, but not rough. Controlled. Like he’s holding something precious and doesn’t want to admit it. My breath catches.