Chapter 27
Laurent
Dear God. The woman was lethal. It had taken time, but the admiration came—slowly, stubbornly. Admiration for her resilience. For how she’d survived. The misdirection to Spain. All of it.
I watched her rigid posture, arms folded across her chest, yet resting protectively over our daughter.
A baby girl.
I frowned.
A daughter.
I glanced at Garrett.
I’d need to hire more bodyguards.
There was no way a dickhead like me was getting anywhere near my daughter. The thought made my blood simmer.
Did Lucia know?
My head snapped toward her, but she sat there—stoic, calm, untouchable.
I tugged at my collar, the fabric suddenly too tight, and rolled down the window. Cool air hit my face as I wiped the sweat from my brow.
How could she be so calm? She was crying just minutes ago.
I forced myself to breathe, remembering the sound of our baby’s heartbeat.
I could do this—for her. For us. For our family.
?? ?? ??
I moved the armchair closer to her bed and sat down. I reached for my glass, swirling the scotch and watching the ice cubes melt into amber.
I should have been there—to protect her, to provide for her.
For them.
Instead, I’d turned her pregnancy into something horrific. She’d hidden away in the smallest living space I’d ever seen, working in a corner shop just to get by. Her bank account untouched. No medical appointments.
And yet… she’d still found love.
Simple, genuine love.
People who cared for her without reason or reward.
I’d like to blame my upbringing—the cold, transactional way I was raised—but I didn’t have it in me to lie to myself anymore.
It was all on me.
There was no way I could let this woman slip away again. I wanted it all—the good, the bad, and the ugly. But most of all, I wanted something real in my life.
I took a long drink, the burn steadying me as I watched her sleep.
No prenups. No conditions.
I wanted her to become Lucia Dubois by choice.
?? ?? ??
I set the tray on the nightstand before taking a strand of her hair and using the ends to tickle her nose.
She wrinkled it and went back to sleep.
When I did it again, she rubbed her nose and blinked awake.
God, I’d missed those big blue eyes.
She blinked once. Then again.
“Good morning,” I whispered, holding out my hand.
She hesitated for a moment but let me help her up.
When she stood, she paused at the tray of food.
“Breakfast in bed—once you’ve seen to your squashed bladder,” I offered.
She tugged her top down over her belly and started toward the bathroom, pausing to glance back at me with a frown.
Excellent.
She was confused.
This was a good sign.
?? ?? ??
With only weeks left, time was running out.
I booked private birthing classes. I took her swimming.
Hell, I even endured mutinous glances when I picked her up from lunch with Evelyn and Allison—though our daughter effectively blocked their vile breast-smushing ways.
I missed those breasts more than what was healthy.
Lucia still didn’t drop her guard around me, but sometimes I caught her sneaking curious glances.
Then the day came when she took my hand and placed it on her swollen belly. My heart missed a beat when I felt our daughter move. I looked at Lucia—half in wonder, half in disbelief.
Then she did it again, as if to make sure I’d noticed her presence.
To my horror, my eyes began to sting. I was about to pull away when Lucia placed both her hands over mine, holding me there.
I brought my other hand down, cradling the curve of her belly, and held our baby between us.
“That’s how I felt the first time she moved,” she whispered.
I don’t know how long we stayed like that, but neither of us seemed willing to break the fragile truce.
“Laurent,” she said at last, releasing my hand. Her voice wavered. “You’ll have learned that I was in foster care until I was an adult. Did it ever occur to you how a thin, blonde girl might be treated in the system?”
The thoughts that came to mind were ones I didn’t want to face. Even as I looked into her blue eyes, the image she painted made my stomach twist.
“I couldn’t always hide,” she said softly, patting my hand as though I were the one who needed reassuring.
“Lucia,” I began—but my voice cracked. I drew in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry… isn’t enough.”
I couldn’t imagine anyone hurting her. Not physically. Not emotionally.
Not my Lucia—so full of life, so full of love.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, resting my cheek against her belly. I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. “I’m so sorry.”
Shame and guilt crawled through me, hollowing me from within.
She didn’t say anything, just placed her hand on my head—hesitant at first—then stroked my hair back and let her palm rest against my cheek.
I vowed then that I’d be worthy of her trust. I drew her hand to my lips and pressed a kiss into her palm.