Chapter Twelve
She stirred early the next morning in a strange environment. Aristotle’s room, with its impersonal monochromatic colour scheme—all shades of grey, cream and black—and modernistic furniture, and let her eyes shift over the room with renewed perception now.
She’d known he was cold.
Unattached.
But she’d thought that was his personality, rather than a byproduct of trauma.
Now, she couldn’t help but see the end result of his world-changing discovery on his entire life.
In the lack of close friendships and relationships, in his one-eyed determination to succeed in business, as though he constantly had to prove himself.
And finally, even in something as superficial as the décor of his penthouse.
The blandness didn’t bother her because it was boring—although there was that.
But it was the lack of him in the space, the lack of personal details, the cold, sterile furniture that had no history or connection to him.
Despite the fact that his childhood home was overflowing with family heirlooms and sentimental items, he had brought none of them here with him.
Not the candlesticks that were used as centrepieces each night for dinner, that had borne witness to presumably every shared family meal of his life.
Not the artworks that hung on the walls, no family portraits, no chairs nor cushions that might remind him of life at the mansion on the hill.
It was austere in a way that was needless and now understandable. She turned to face him, at the exact moment his lashes fluttered and his eyes opened, latching to hers.
It was the first time they’d fallen asleep in the same bed; the first time they’d woken up side by side. But that wasn’t what made her whole body bloom with warmth.
It was looking into his eyes with the knowledge she’d come to yesterday: that she loved him.
‘Hi,’ she said, the word emerging shy and soft, so she cleared her throat and flashed a smile at him, carefully obscuring any more complicated thoughts. ‘How did you sleep?’
He reached out, tucking some hair behind her ear, his gaze resting on the auburn strands before slipping back to her eyes. ‘Like a log. You?’
She stretched. ‘Same.’ She’d slept a dreamless sleep, and woken feeling more refreshed than she had in a long time.
‘What time are you leaving for work today?’
He pushed up onto one elbow, regarding her thoughtfully. ‘Actually, I thought I might take the day off.’
‘You took yesterday off.’
‘Which was my first leave day in about ten years,’ he quipped. ‘Unless you’d prefer to be left alone?’
Her heart jackhammered in her chest. ‘That’s not it,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m just…surprised.’
He reached up again, this time curving his hand over her cheek in a way that made her feel special and valued, vulnerable and reassured all at once. ‘How else can I be sure you won’t go scaling ladders?’
She laughed. ‘You can’t. You’d better book the next few months off at least,’ she suggested, ignoring the way her whole body tingled at the very idea. ‘You know, in case I get any other decorating ideas.’
‘Or set up my office from home,’ he suggested, and she realised he wasn’t even joking. ‘It’s probably a good idea to be around more. In case you need me.’
Her heart stammered.
‘I can always go to the office for meetings—it’s just a drive across town.’
‘I’m fine, Aristotle,’ she said, unevenly though, because knowing how she felt about him meant that this offer was setting her soul alight.
‘I’d prefer not to leave anything to chance.
This is our baby we’re talking about,’ he said, and the warmth ebbed slightly, leaving in its place a stark reminder that his actions were motivated by her pregnancy, rather than her.
The fact that she loved Aristotle didn’t mean he loved her. Or that he’d ever allow himself to.
The day before the wedding he woke up with a single compelling thought: every single part of their relationship made sense.
It was like the best business partnerships he’d ever been in—where two people were in perfect harmony, their outlooks in sync.
Everything about them just worked. Because of the contract?
Or because of how compatible they were, in terms of forging a truly pragmatic relationship?
It was as if they’d taken the standard model of a marriage and pulled out only the parts that suited them, to create something infinitely more workable, with zero chance of failure.
How could things go wrong when their feelings weren’t involved?
Okay, he wasn’t completely na?ve. Of course, some feelings were involved.
The walls they’d both kept up around themselves for various reasons had crumbled weeks ago, leaving in their place renewed understanding and respect.
The woman who’d told him she hated him was no longer in evidence, and the man who’d had to threaten a legal battle to convince Rosemary of the wisdom of this marriage felt like a stranger.
Because they understood one another so much better now, he couldn’t conceive of a world in which he suggested marriage and she didn’t immediately agree.
He woke with no hesitations or reservations about the next twenty-four hours. If anything, he simply felt a rush of adrenalin—and impatience—at the prospect of finally crossing this legal line and making her his in the eyes of the law, his family, and for the sake of their baby.
Rosie woke up the morning before the wedding with a sinking feeling in her chest and an overwhelming sense that something was wrong.
It was a free-floating premonition of doom that didn’t ease as the day went on and she was forced to endure a family lunch with her father, Melina, her mother and stepfather, and Aristotle at her side.
The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife, and no matter how skilfully Aristotle managed the conversation to deflect any potentially fraught topics, to keep things civil, she was aware of the same anger and animosity her mother had always felt, targeted not only at her father, but also at Melina.
Rosie’s defensive hackles were raised early on, and refused to settle.
It was a relief when the lunch was finally over, and she was able to go home with Aristotle.
But it was not for a leisurely afternoon.
She’d had the bright idea of organising a hairdresser some time ago, to come and touch up her style a little, and a manicurist to attend to her nails.
Both came to the apartment, yet it was still exhausting having to make conversation and play the part of the ebullient, excited bride.
Because as the day stretched on, and their wedding drew closer, she could only acknowledge that the sense of doom and uncertainty was growing, making it almost impossible to ignore.
Just get through it. You know this is the right decision.
But what if that wasn’t the case? What if this instinct—demandingly persistent—was actually a smarter part of her brain finally kicking into gear before it was too late?
Marrying him was one thing, when it had just been about the baby. But what about herself? How would she do this, knowing that she loved him?
And she really did know that now. The realisation that had flooded her completely as they’d dined on Tharkos had only strengthened with every minute that they were together.
And in fact, every minute they were apart, too.
He had become a living, interwoven part of her, reminding her often of those ruins in Pompeii, and the tangled limbs of long-ago lovers.
But almost as if their child knew she needed the reminder of what they were doing and why, as Rosie walked the hairstylist to the door then locked it behind her, a fizzing feeling erupted in her tummy, like a small pop, and she gasped as she pressed a hand to it and laughed.
All premonitions of doom were forgotten.
‘Aristotle!’ she called at the top of her voice, not daring to walk towards him lest the baby stop moving. ‘Come here!’
He sprinted from wherever he’d been—his home office, she presumed—into the foyer. ‘Are you okay?’ His concern was obvious and she felt a rush of compunction for having worried him.
She smiled brightly. ‘I’m fine, totally fine,’ she reassured him, reaching out and grabbing his hand.
‘The baby moved! I can feel the baby move.’ She pressed his palm to her belly and moved her other hand beside it, laughing again as another backflip shifted and connected with the wall of her stomach.
He frowned, clearly concentrating. ‘I don’t feel it.’
‘Ahh,’ she groaned, sympathetic for him.
‘I’ve read that it can take a little longer for someone else to feel, but it’s incredible,’ she said, eyes filling with tears.
‘I thought… I mean, I know I’m pregnant, obviously.
But this is the first time I’ve felt as though the baby is really inside of me, really a part of me.
I can feel them. Their whole little self.
Our baby. It’s incredible,’ she repeated, staring up at him, overcome by powerful emotions.
He stared back at her, moving his hand from her belly to her hip, his other joining it on the other side.
‘You’re incredible,’ he corrected, and her pulse exploded as her whole chest seemed to crack wide open. Fireworks were dancing on the periphery of her mind.
‘Aristotle,’ she said, staring up at him with wonder and certainty. I love you. The words were there, at the front of her mind and on the tip of her tongue, but somehow, she held back from saying them.
He lifted his hands though, cupping her face, staring down at her with so much emotion in his eyes that everything lurched and tipped off-balance.
‘I have something for you,’ he said in a low voice, dropping his hands then, stepping backwards. ‘A wedding present.’
Her insides twisted. ‘Oh?’