Chapter Nineteen
Beatrix
I’m standing in the little room next to our bedroom that Santiago and I decided will be the nursery, trying to decide on what furniture we’ll need.
He’s impatient to get the room ready, but we don’t even know if we’re having a boy or a girl yet, and, apart from that, my due date is still months away.
Since our conversation a couple of weeks ago, where I decided to give up all my vulnerabilities to him and to put my trust in him, he’s been wonderful.
He was wonderful then too, listening to what I said, then giving me a few of his own vulnerabilities.
Telling me that he’s not an easy man, that he’s arrogant and prefers facts to feelings. That he’s difficult.
I had to ask him about that and why he believed that about himself, and I wasn’t surprised to hear that he was told that by his parents.
But they were wrong about him, so, so wrong, and it angered me to hear it.
Because I don’t think he’s difficult. I think he’s a man who’s armoured himself the way I armoured myself.
I did so with ice, while his armour is his formidable intellect and his rage.
It protects him, yet it also hides the person he truly is, a man who worries about hurting his mother.
Who tried to mend his relationship with his father.
Who wants the best for his child. And who was hurt long ago, leaving him with no choice but to protect himself the best he could.
I didn’t lie when I told him he was a man made of caring, because that’s exactly what he is.
The look on his face when I felt the baby kick, then put his hand on my stomach so he could feel it too, made everything female in me tighten.
It was fierce, that look. Intense. Protective and possessive, and a deep part of me knew then that of course he would love his child. That look on his face was love.
But he won’t love you, don’t forget that.
No, I haven’t forgotten. How could I? I haven’t forgotten the sharp pain I felt the moment he said it, either. I don’t know what that pain meant, and I don’t want to know. It’s enough for me that he loves our child and I’m not going to do anything to jeopardise that.
Anyway, he’s helped me figure out what I want to study at university—science, oddly enough, which I wouldn’t have thought about myself—and where and when.
I’ll begin the course after the baby is born, which will give me some time to prepare not only for the baby, but also for a new stage of life afterwards.
And apart from anything else, my French needs to improve so I can actually attend and understand classes.
He’s also released a low-key press statement about our relationship, and, while there was some initial fuss and outrage, it gradually died down as the general public looked elsewhere for gossip.
His mother hasn’t dealt with it, though, and she’s shut him out, refusing to answer his calls. It makes me furious that she treats him this way, and I almost want to intervene on his behalf, but I know that won’t help anything. In fact, it’ll likely only make it worse.
He comes out of his study at night after every attempted call, furious and tight-lipped, and I want to tell him that maybe he should leave her be.
Let her come to some reckoning with it in her own time, because all he’s doing is hurting himself.
But whenever I broach the topic, he changes the subject.
It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it, so I don’t push.
I’ve been enjoying having someone to share things with too much to disturb the delicate understanding we’ve come to.
As I frown at the huge wardrobe in the corner, trying to see if a changing table would fit there, I feel a pair of strong, warm arms slide around my waist, drawing me up against a hot, hard male body.
‘Are you making plans without me?’ he murmurs in my ear.
‘No, of course not.’ I smile and turn in his arms, looking up into his dark eyes. ‘I was only thinking of where to put the changing table.’
He’s usually so unreadable, but now one of his rare smiles comes out and his face lights up. ‘Oh, wait. I have something to show you.’ He releases me, and vanishes out of the door, only to return a few moments later with a big rolled-up sheet of paper.
‘Look,’ he says, striding over to the guest bed and unrolling the paper. ‘I’ve done a plan for the room already.’
And he has. The plan has been drawn with great care and precision, the room absolutely to scale, with all the furniture thoughtfully placed. A crib here. A changing table there. A chest of drawers against one wall, and no wardrobe.
‘I think we should put a door in from our room,’ he says, gesturing to what he’s drawn on the plan.
‘So we can easily come and see to the baby in the middle of the night. And over here,’ he points to another drawing, ‘I think we should have a chair for you to sit in when you feed him or her.’ He glances at me, his smile deepening.
‘Or for myself when I do the feeding.’ He looks thoughtful for a second then adds, ‘Actually, if we get a really big chair, we can all sit in it together.’
And something gathers tight in my chest, something hot. A burning coal that just sits there, getting hotter and hotter, fuelled by his smile and the light in his dark eyes. Except they’re not so dark now, they’re brilliant, like a night full of stars, and I can’t tear my gaze away.
We haven’t talked in detail about how we’re going to care for our child, but I know I don’t want to get a nanny.
I want to look after him or her myself, be a hands-on mother.
I hadn’t really thought of what kind of father he’d be at first, but now I know he loves the baby, I can see that love in his eyes now, burning so bright.
He’s taken time out of his busy day to draw this intricate and thoughtful plan, and he wants a door to our room for ease of access.
And he’s thought about me and my comfort, and the fact that he’s even included himself in looking after the child…
This will be the family you always wanted for yourself.
Yes, it’s true. And it won’t just be me and my child, it will include him as well.
He’s included himself, and I can see it now, us with our baby sleeping in the next room.
Him insisting it’s his turn to do the night feed and letting me sleep, and then me doing the same for him.
Then maybe both of us, sitting in the chair together, holding our child…
Our little family.
My eyes prickle with sharp tears, a lump sitting in my throat, and something is becoming clear to me. Something I should have realised long before now, perhaps even that day I arrived here, when I was sitting on the terrace and he told me that, even though my father didn’t want me, he did.
Or maybe it was even before then, that night at the fundraiser when I saw him standing at the bar, and our eyes met. And I knew then that he’d be my ruin.
And he was. He is. Because I know what this hot glow in my chest is, and I know why I’m fighting tears. Why this feels like the end of the world.
I’m in love with him. I knew he was dangerous all those months ago, I knew he would end me, and he has. I’m ruined for anyone else, and I always will be, because he’s the one I want. He’s the only one I want.
He’s frowning now, staring at me with some concern. He always picks up on my emotions. I can never hide anything from him. ‘What’s wrong, Bea?’ He rises to his feet and comes over to where I’m standing, the concern in his gaze deepening. ‘Are you okay?’
I don’t want to tell him the truth, I don’t.
Because telling him I love him will break something.
It’ll break this fragile understanding we’ve arrived at, and I don’t want to break it.
It’s good being in his bed every night. It’s good having his arms around me.
It’s good talking for hours downstairs at the dinner table, long after the food has been eaten, simply talking about everything and nothing.
But I know that I can’t keep this feeling to myself, that I have to tell him.
He deserves to know. He’s been very clear that he doesn’t want love, but I think that’s because his parents were both so selfish.
They only had love for themselves, for their own pain and drama, and there was nothing left for him.
They thought he was difficult, but he’s not.
He’s been pouring all the love he had into them, and he got nothing back, and he blames himself.
He thinks he’s the problem, I know he does, but he’s not. He was never the problem.
His feelings are protected and locked away to keep himself from being hurt. But he needs to know he doesn’t have to do that with me. That he’s enough just as he is, he never had to do anything else or be anything else. No matter how angry he was and sometimes still is, I love him all the same.
I love him.
‘Yes,’ I say, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. ‘I’m okay.’
He frowns and reaches to cup my cheek in his hand, his palm warm against my skin. ‘So why are you crying?’ His thumb brushes away an errant tear and I shiver… I can’t help it.
This will break us, I know it. Or, at least, it’ll break me, because he doesn’t feel the same way. And by telling him, I’ll have crossed a line that maybe I won’t be able to cross back over.
But I’ve never loved anyone before, and I want to give him this.
I want him to know that at least one person loves him for exactly who he is.
Of course, he’ll have to give me the truth in return, I know that, and it’ll hurt.
But I can’t hide this truth from him. He’s too smart not to see it, and anyway, I don’t care about my pain. I’m used to it by now.
‘I’m sorry, Santiago,’ I say huskily. ‘I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but… I think…that I’ve…fallen in love with you.’