Chapter 21 Rhea
TWENTY-ONE
RHEA
I don’t sleep. Not really.
I toss. I turn. I try to breathe past the ache in my chest, the truth unraveling everything I thought I knew.
My first mistake - I’d entered his number wrong.
My second one—maybe the biggest one of my life. I’d given up too easily on contacting him once I knew I was pregnant.
I’d opted instead to protect myself. To protect Esme.
I saw that photo. The beautiful woman. The child. The happy little family picnic. And I assumed the worst.
I thought I was saving Esme from being “the child on the side.”
Thought I was saving myself from being “the woman on the side.”
From being the mistake. The scandal. The problem that showed up with a baby bump and a broken heart.
But now? Now I know.
He’s not married. He doesn’t have children. He saved my damned note for two years. He remembered the line in French that I used to sign.
I toss and turn until the sheets are twisted and the blankets are on the floor.
What if I believe him, and this weekend ends in radio silence, too?
What if I tell him now, and he thinks I’m just angling for something?
What if he wants nothing to do with being a father?
What if he resents me for not telling him sooner?
What if he tries to take Esme from me because he can give her things I can’t?
The last thought sends a tremor through me so sharp I curl in on myself.
And still, I don’t sleep.
Not until sometime after 3 a.m. When exhaustion finally wins. And when it does, it drags me down into a dream I don’t want to leave.
“Rhea…”
In the dream, his voice is barely a whisper, but I feel it in every inch of my body.
“Come to bed,” he murmurs, arms open, sheets pulled back, his dark eyes warm and steady. “Get some rest.”
I go to him. Without hesitation. I climb into the bed, into the quiet safety of his chest.
One arm wraps around me. The other strokes my hair as his voice brushes my temple:
“It’s going to be okay. We’re going to figure this out.”
And then I’m kissing him—like I’ve waited years to do. Like my whole future depends on the way he kisses me back.
He does. Fully. Desperately.
His tongue slides against mine, drinking me in, like he’s starving and I’m the only thing that’s ever satisfied him.
I feel his hardness pressing against my thigh, and I trace a line from his dimpled chin to the curve of his neck, down the smooth plane of his chest, his firm, perfect stomach.
My hand finds him, hot and throbbing, and I straddle him slowly, holding him at my entrance. My body aches with need, wet and ready, every cell begging for him.
But I don’t let him in. Not yet. Instead, I draw slow, teasing circles with my hips, feeling the thick, perfect pressure of him poised right there.
So close.
And then—
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The alarm clock shatters the dream like glass.
I bolt upright, chest heaving, sweat at my collarbone. Disoriented. Empty. Still aching for him. Still reeling from everything I now know.
I reach for my phone, then stop. What now?
A breakfast date?
Suddenly, I’m terrified at the prospect.
A whole day of lies ahead. Photos. Walking down the damned aisle. Seated together at the wedding party table. Dinner. Toasts. Drinks.
I close my eyes again.
I want Esme.
I want the dream back.
I want answers to questions I’m not sure I’m brave enough to ask. And then a text alert.
It’s him.
Good morning.
I don’t respond. I suddenly have no idea how to interact with him.
I was able to get a 9:00 a.m. reservation at a French cafe about 10 minutes from here.
A French Cafe. My heart aches to go to a French Cafe with this man. But my fingers run interference.
So sorry. I woke up not feeling great.
Then:
Maybe the cold risotto.
Too scared to go and too scared not to, I write:
Could I get a raincheck?
Three bouncing dots. Disappear. Reappear. Disappear. Reappear.
Of course. Hope you feel better. See you at the photo shoot.
Then, before I can respond, the three bouncing dots appear again.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Then:
Repose-toi bien. Je pense à toi.
I stare at the words. “Rest well. I’m thinking of you.” The ache in my chest deepens, and I can’t help myself. I tap the heart emoji, hit send. And second-guess the choice immediately.
The 11:30 stylist appointment isn’t just hair and makeup.
It’s a full-blown transformation.
Manicure. Blowout. Airbrush foundation. A shoulder massage that makes me feel like maybe I haven’t completely ruined my posture for life. They even fix the broken nail I didn’t mention and gloss my lips in a color I would never have picked—but somehow, it’s perfect.
When I finally see myself in the mirror, I know it’s me. But I hardly recognize myself.
I have never looked better in my life. Probably never will again—unless I find a way to bankroll weekly glam teams and $400 miracle creams.
I step out onto the lawn for the photo shoot, my heels sinking into the grass. The light is golden. Everything is curated, crisp, and elegant.
And then I see him.
Goddamn, that man was born to wear a tux.
He starts moving toward me as if I’m the only one there. Purposeful. Calm. Like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
“Feeling better?” he asks, his voice laced with concern.
I nod. “Je vais mieux, merci de demander.” (I’m better, thanks for asking.)
His whole face lights up—like I’ve surprised him.
“You look stunning,” he says, eyes trailing from my perfectly coiffed hair down the fitted satin lines of the dress. Then, with a crooked grin, “But I’ve gotta say, you were just as beautiful last night.”
I feel the heat rise immediately—maybe not on my airbrushed face, but definitely down my neck… and probably all the way to my cleavage.
Before I can even attempt a witty reply, we’re being called into position.
Some shots are simple—stand close. Smile. Some are more formal—his hand resting on my shoulder, both of us turned toward the camera.
And then come the ones of just the two of us. We link arms. We’re told to laugh. To look at each other like we’re sharing a secret.
Every time he touches me, I flash back to the dream.
To his hand stroking my hair, his body pressed against mine, the way I felt—safe, whole, wanted. I fight the flush, try to stay focused, but it’s like walking a tightrope between memory and fantasy.
Serena, who’d been in full bridezilla mode yesterday, seems to have settled into something softer today. She’s radiant—every inch the polished, poised bride. earlier, there was something surprising in her expression.
When her eyes land on me and Carter standing side by side for a few sibling shots, she simply says, “You two look great together.”
No scrutiny. No calculation. Just warmth. Like maybe she’s decided I belong here after all.
Then, Carter pulls me in tight, presses a kiss on my forehead, and just as the camera clicks, he whispers, “I wish Mom was here.”
I tear up instantly. “Me, too.”
And the moment I step away, Spencer is there.
“You okay?” he asks, reading my face like a map.
“Yeah,” I say, blinking away the tears. “Just missing my mom. It’s hard not having her here today.”
He reaches out and takes my hand, his fingers warm and steady. He gives it a gentle squeeze. “I bet she’s here,” he says. “And I bet she’s proud of you both.”
Damn he’s good.
Soon it’s time to walk up the aisle, paired again. This time, when he offers his arm, I don’t hesitate to take it.
For a moment—just a moment—I let myself imagine.
What it would feel like to be a bride. His bride. To walk this very path toward a future where the man beside me was mine, not just for today. Not just for the weekend. But for always.
At the wedding party table, we make polite conversation, laugh at speeches, and sip slowly from glasses that never seem to empty.
When it’s Spencer’s turn to give a toast, he rises with easy confidence. Funny. Sentimental. Sharp. Just like he was that night at the gala.
He has the room laughing in the first sixty seconds, and wiping tears by the last.
His closing line is simple:
“Love isn’t about grand gestures or perfect timing. It’s about showing up. Fully. When it matters.”
As he returns to his seat, I want to stand up and wrap my arms around him. Tell him how proud I am and kiss him like I mean it. But, of course, he’s not mine to be proud of.
Still, when the DJ announces the wedding party dance, I can’t get to the dance floor fast enough. I need to feel his hands on my waist, and our bodies moving together.
I need to look deep into those eyes again and try to figure out what’s there.