25. Cassie #2
"Yes, dear," I say with an eye roll, but I'm already reaching for the berries. "The doctor said the baby's measuring perfectly at the last appointment. You can stop hovering."
He leans against the counter, studying me. "That scare last month got to me."
The memory makes my hand instinctively go to my belly.
The cramping had come out of nowhere during a design meeting, sharp enough to make me gasp.
Roman had broken every traffic law in New York getting me to the hospital, his face a mask of barely controlled fear.
It turned out to be nothing serious—dehydration and overexertion—but the look in Roman's eyes as we waited for the ultrasound had revealed the depth of his love for our unborn child. For our family.
"I'm being careful," I promise. "But I can't stop living my life, Roman. This collection launch is everything I've worked for."
"I know. I don't want you to stop." He moves behind me, his hands kneading the tight muscles in my shoulders. "I just want you to let me help more. Let the team help. You've built something that can function without you being hands-on every minute."
I lean into his touch, letting my eyes close. "That's the scary part, you know? Not just the baby, but having a team, having people count on me for their livelihoods. What if I can't handle it all?"
"You don't have to handle it all alone." His voice is soft against my ear. "That's what partnerships are for. Business partnerships, life partnerships."
Something in his tone makes me turn to face him. "Are you proposing?"
A smile tugs at his lips. "Would you say yes if I were?"
I consider this seriously. "I don't know. Not because I don't love you—God knows I do, more than I thought possible. But marriage seems like something we should do because we want to, not because there's a baby on the way."
He nods, something like relief crossing his features. "I was hoping you'd say that. I want to marry you, Cassie. Someday. But I want it to be about us, not about checking boxes in the right order."
"Since when have we done anything in the right order?" I laugh, gesturing to my pregnant belly.
"Exactly." He pulls me gently to my feet, leading me toward our bedroom. "We're making our own rules. Our own harmony."
As we get ready for bed, moving around each other in a dance that's become familiar over the months of living together, I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude.
For the success of the launch.
For the healthy baby growing inside me. But mostly for this man who sees me—really sees me—and loves me, not despite my ambitions but because of them.
In bed, Roman's hand rests on my stomach, a nightly ritual that soothes us both. I've been reviewing the production timeline on my tablet, making notes for tomorrow's team meeting, when a particularly strong kick makes Roman's eyes widen.
"Was that?—?"
"Your daughter saying hello," I confirm, setting the tablet aside. "Or possibly complaining that I'm working instead of sleeping."
"Smart girl," he murmurs, leaning down to speak directly to my belly. "Keep your mom in line for me, will you?"
I run my fingers through his hair, overwhelmed by love for this man who once seemed so unreachable. "I've been thinking about names."
His head lifts, eyes meeting mine with interest. "Any frontrunners?"
"I was thinking... what about Harmony, middle name Eleanor?”
“Harmony Eleanor Monroe- Kade," he tests the name on his tongue, then smiles. "It fits."
"Harmony Monroe-Kade," I correct gently. "If that's okay with you."
His expression softens. "More than okay. It's perfect."
Another kick punctuates the moment, as if our daughter is voicing her approval.
Roman's hand splays wider across my stomach, and I cover it with my own, studying the contrast—his large, tanned fingers intertwined with my smaller, paler ones, both protecting the life we created together.
"You know, when I pictured my life a year ago," I say quietly, "it looked nothing like this. I thought success would mean my name on a label somewhere, maybe my own small studio. I never imagined all of this."
"Having regrets?" There's a vulnerability in his question that still surprises me sometimes.
"Not a single one." I squeeze his hand. "But I am having revelations. About what matters. About what success really looks like."
He shifts closer, his body curving protectively around mine. "And what does it look like to you now?"
I'm about to answer when my phone pings with a notification. I reach for it automatically, then freeze at the name on the screen.
"What is it?" Roman asks, immediately alert to my change in demeanor.
I turn the phone so he can see the email notification. "It's from Eliza Winters."
His brow furrows. "The Eliza Winters? The design director at Marchesa?"
I nod, my heart suddenly racing. "The subject line says 'Collaboration Proposal.'"
Roman sits up, the sheet pooling around his waist. "Well? Open it!"
My finger hovers over the screen, a strange mix of excitement and fear coursing through me.
Months ago, an email from one of the most prestigious fashion houses in the world would have had me jumping out of bed, regardless of the hour.
Now, I hesitate.
"What if this changes everything?" I whisper, one hand protectively covering my belly. "What if I can't do it all?"
Roman's hand covers mine, steady and warm. "Whatever it is, whatever you want to do—we'll figure it out. Together."
I take a deep breath, look into his eyes—the eyes of the man who has never once asked me to be less than I am—and tap the notification.
As the email loads, the baby delivers another powerful kick, as if urging me forward into this new, unexpected chapter of our beautifully messy, perfectly imperfect life.