Chapter 1 #2
“Anyway,” she went on, “I knew you were having a quiet dinner, but I thought...well, I thought you’d want to see him tonight. On your anniversary. A little present.”
She pulled out a glossy, black-and-white strip of photos and held them out to me.
My hands actually shook as I took them.
I stared down at the images, my breath hitching.
The baby. Our baby. The features were suddenly so clear, so human.
The little button nose, the curve of the chubby cheeks, the tiny, perfect lips.
After years of clinical heartbreak, here was the physical proof of our future.
Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and fast, blurring the image.
“Oh, my god,” I whispered, tracing the paper with my thumb. “So beautiful.”
“Isn’t he?” Celine said softly. She stepped closer to me, leaning in to look at the photos. She was standing very close now, her arm brushing mine, inserting herself into the intimate moment. “He’s absolutely perfect.”
“Adrian, come look,” I said, my voice thick with emotion, desperate to share the overwhelming joy with my husband.
I turned around.
Adrian hadn’t moved from the dining table. He was gripping the stem of his wine glass so tightly I was terrified it would shatter in his hand. He was staring at Celine with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred.
My smile faltered. “Adrian?”
Slowly, deliberately, he stood up. He walked over to the living room, his movements stiff and heavily controlled. He didn’t look at the photos in my hands. He looked only at Celine.
“You shouldn’t have come here tonight, Celine,” he said. His voice was deadly quiet. It wasn’t a reprimand; it was a lethal warning.
Celine’s lower lip trembled slightly, a masterful display of vulnerability. She took a half-step back, seeking shelter behind me. “I just thought...I thought you’d want to see your son, Adrian.”
“Or daughter,” he said coldly, unmoved by her display. “We have an appointment tomorrow. We could have seen the photos then.”
“Like I said, I just couldn’t wait,” she murmured, looking down at the photos in my hand.
And then, she looked up, her blue eyes meeting mine with a strange, searching intensity.
“It’s funny, actually,” Celine said, her voice bright and conversational. “The technician said he has my nose. Can you see it? The little slope right there?”
She pointed a manicured finger at the ultrasound photo.
I froze.
The joyous warmth in my chest vanished, replaced instantly by a cold, heavy stone dropping into the pit of my stomach.
He has my nose.
My brain scrambled to process the words. It was a biological impossibility. The baby was made from my egg and Adrian’s sperm. Celine was the gestational carrier. The clinical process was watertight. She shared zero DNA with the child growing inside her.
I stared at her, genuinely confused. Was it just a slip of the tongue? A bizarre manifestation of pregnancy hormones and the natural maternal attachment she must be feeling? She had been carrying him for six months; it was only natural she felt connected to him. But to claim his features...
“Oh,” I said, forcing a light, breathy laugh to cover the sudden, awkward tension. “Well, ultrasound photos are so squished. It’s hard to tell anything. I’m sure he—or she—will look just like Adrian when he comes out.”
“Maybe,” Celine said softly. Her eyes didn’t stay on me.
They flicked to Adrian, lingering on his face for a fraction of a second too long, a silent, vibrating current passing between them that I couldn’t read.
“Well, I should let you get back to your dinner. I’m sorry again for interrupting. Happy anniversary, you two.”
“I’ll see you out,” Adrian said.
He didn’t wait for her. He turned on his heel and walked to the elevator, pressing the call button with unnecessary, violent force. Celine gave me a sweet, apologetic smile, squeezed my hand one last time, and followed him.
I watched them stand in the foyer. Adrian’s back was to me, his broad shoulders rigid. Celine looked up at him as the doors opened. She whispered something, too low for me to hear.
Adrian didn’t respond verbally. His hands simply clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles stark white against his skin, before she stepped into the elevator and the doors slid shut.
When Adrian turned back to face me, the dark cloud hanging over him was suffocating.
He didn’t look at me. He walked straight through the living room, heading directly for the wet bar in the corner.
He grabbed a heavy crystal decanter, poured three fingers of scotch, and downed it in one swallow, his hand shaking slightly as he set the glass down.
I stood in the center of the living room, the ultrasound photos feeling heavy in my hand.
I was unsettled, but not by Celine’s bizarre comment. I was unsettled by my husband.
Why was he acting like this? Celine had overstepped a boundary, yes, but Adrian was reacting as if she had just detonated a bomb in our living room. He looked like a trapped animal. The sheer magnitude of his anger was disproportionate to an annoying, uninvited visit from our hormonal surrogate.
“Adrian,” I said softly, setting the ultrasound photos on the coffee table. I walked over to the wet bar. “Are you all right?”
“She overstepped,” he snarled, staring blindly at the bottles of liquor. He slammed his hand flat against the marble counter, making the glasses rattle. “She had no right to come here tonight. I pay her to follow the schedule, not to show up at my home uninvited.”
“She was just excited,” I tried to soothe, stepping up behind him. I placed my hands on his back, feeling the frantic, heavy thud of his heart through his shirt. “It was a sweet gesture, Adrian. She just wanted us to see the baby.”
“It wasn’t sweet,” he snapped, turning around so fast I stumbled back a step. He grabbed my hips, his grip tight enough to bruise. “It was calculated. She wants to be part of the family. She wants to cross a line.”
I frowned, looking up into his dark, furious eyes, desperately trying to understand the source of his panic. “Adrian, she’s carrying our child. She is part of this, for now. You’re overreacting.”
“I’m not,” he said fiercely, giving me a slight shake. He pulled me closer, burying his face in my hair, his breathing harsh and ragged. “You don’t understand, Grace. You see the best in everyone. You don’t see what people really want.”
“And what does she want?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper against his chest.
Adrian didn’t answer.
He pulled back, staring down at me. The anger in his eyes was gone, replaced by a raw, consuming terror that stripped away all his polished corporate restraint. He looked at me like a man who thought I was slipping through his fingers, like a man staring at the end of the world.
“Adrian,” I murmured, sliding my hands up to cup his face, wanting to anchor him, wanting to fix whatever was breaking inside him. “Hey. Look at me. It’s our anniversary. She’s gone. It’s just us.”
He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against mine. He let out a shuddering breath. “Just us,” he repeated, the words sounding exactly like a desperate prayer.
When he opened his eyes again, the terror morphed into a feral, possessive hunger.
He didn’t say another word. He didn’t gently guide me to the bedroom. He whispered my name and crushed his mouth to mine, kissing me with a frantic, punishing desperation that stole the breath straight from my lungs.