54. Margot
54
MARGOT
T he light pouring into the penthouse is soft and golden, like the city itself has decided to exhale. For once, the world isn’t holding its breath. Neither am I.
I pad barefoot across the hardwood floors, one hand instinctively cradling my belly. The baby gives a sleepy little kick, as if to say good morning. In the kitchen, I find Grayson standing over the stove, staring suspiciously at a frying pan like it might attack.
“Is that… supposed to be an omelet?” I ask, leaning against the doorway with a raised brow.
He frowns. “It was. Until it betrayed me.”
“It looks like it’s trying to stage a coup.”
“I prefer to call it rustic.”
I snort, sliding onto a barstool as he scrapes the offending egg-mass onto a plate. “Well, rustic is trending. Maybe it’ll become a thing.”
He places it in front of me with exaggerated pride. “Bon appétit, Mrs. King.”
I take a bite. Chew. Swallow. Pause. “You might’ve invented a new protein source.”
He smirks, stealing a kiss before grabbing his coffee. “See? I’m always innovating.”
***
A few hours later, we’re walking hand in hand through SoHo, navigating uneven sidewalks with far too many shopping bags and not enough shame. The baby boutique smells like lavender, pinewood, and new beginnings. Mae, the owner, greets us like we’re family.
“I saw you two on the news,” she says, beaming with grandmotherly approval. “You looked like a couple out of a storybook.”
Grayson straightens, mock-serious. “It’s the lighting.”
“It’s the loyalty,” Mae corrects, patting my hand. “You two give people hope.”
I blink faster than necessary and smile, genuinely touched.
As I browse the wall of onesies printed with slogans like Future CEO , Nap Queen , and I Make My Own Rules , I catch Grayson standing suspiciously close to a tiny gray beanie with knitted ears.
He lifts it delicately. “Too much?”
“For who?” I ask. “You or the baby?”
“I was thinking… matching hats.”
I laugh, louder than I mean to. “You do that, and I will leak your baby photos to the press. Including the one where you're dressed as a cowboy.”
We leave the shop with a knit llama, the ear-hat (naturally), a handwoven mobile, and a blanket so soft I briefly considered buying one for every room in the penthouse.
***
Back home, we start unpacking the bags like it’s Christmas morning, each new item bringing a mix of amusement and disbelief.
Grayson pulls out the knit llama and holds it aloft like he’s presenting it to the sky. “You think this looks dignified enough to be our daughter’s first stuffed animal?” he asks, solemn as a judge.
“She’s not being inducted into the House of Lords, Grayson. She’s being tucked into a bassinet.”
He grins, unfazed. “Don’t listen to her, Lord Llamington. She doesn’t understand your lineage.” He strokes the llama’s ridiculous fuzzy ears with exaggerated reverence before setting it beside the glider chair.
I turn my attention to a stack of parenting books, titles like The Strong-Willed Child , Montessori for the Modern Parent , and How Not to Raise a Little Tyrant . I start shelving them, half-laughing, half-terrified.
Grayson lifts one and studies the cover. “This feels… pointed.”
I smirk without looking at him. “I’m just preparing for the inevitable. You know, raising a small human who is fifty percent you.”
“Ah,” he says, nodding as he sets the book down. “So, ninety-five percent stubborn.”
“Exactly.”
A box of alphabet blocks catches his eye. They’re handcrafted, all organic materials, with a price tag that makes me wince even though I picked them out. He starts arranging the letters on the play-mat with far too much focus.
“I don’t trust that look,” I murmur.
“I’m just exploring her early linguistic capabilities,” he says innocently. “See what I can do with the L, O, V, and E blocks.”
I smile. “That’s actually…”
“Vole,” he finishes, flipping the ‘E’ upside down with a triumphant flourish.
I groan and hurl a plush giraffe at his chest.
We hang the mobile above the crib, soft moons and stars in muted tones that sway gently as the air shifts around us. The nursery glows in the late afternoon light, casting long shadows across the floor. Everything feels quiet. Safe.
“We need to mount the baby monitor,” Grayson says, holding it in one hand while eyeing the walls.
“Thirty-degree angle should be fine.”
He shakes his head. “Forty-five gives better range.”
“It’s a baby monitor, not a sniper scope,” I reply dryly.
He laughs, setting it down with a mock salute. “Well, I’m just trying to give her elite tactical surveillance.”
We sit cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by tiny socks, a blanket shaped like a bear, and more onesies than we could ever realistically use. The domestic chaos feels oddly perfect.
“Okay,” I say. “Final name pitch of the day: Poppy.”
“Too floral,” he replies.
“Cleo?”
“Too feline.”
“Ruth?”
He squints. “Too Supreme Court.”
I sigh, flopping back on the rug. “Well, there goes the legacy.”
Grayson leans over me, brushing my hair off my forehead. “We’ll know it when we say it out loud,” he murmurs. “It’ll feel like home.”
Later that evening, I find him in the nursery, sitting in the rocking chair, writing in a leather-bound journal. He looks up when I enter.
“You writing the next great American novel?”
“A letter. For her.”
He lets me read it. The words are simple, but they hit deep. A promise to protect her, to always tell her the truth. To show up, even when it’s hard. I sit beside him and start my own: If you ever wonder who your mother was… she was scared. But she showed up anyway. She fought. And she chose love over fear.
We write until the sky turns navy and the lights of the city begin to glow. We don’t talk about Eleanor. We talk about names. Blankets. First steps. We talk about joy. And for the first time, it feels like that’s enough.