Chapter 24
Caroline Atkins?
“Miss Caroline, it’s time!” the wedding planner screeches like a deranged peacock outside the bathroom door, probably gripping her clipboard like it’s a weapon.
“Just five more minutes!” I shout back, voice way too shrill to pass for calm.
Because yeah—nothing says blissful bride like sitting on a closed toilet lid in full Vera-fucking-Wang, veil tossed over the sink, and my $12 drugstore pee stick counting down to possibly the most life-altering plot twist since I found out my fiancé was a missing billionaire.
The corset is suffocating, my boobs are trying to mutiny, and my uterus is either late to the party or throwing a surprise guest of honor in there.
I glance down at the test like it holds the secrets of the goddamn universe.
“Come on, you little fucker…” I whisper. “Either give me a plus or a no-show, but don’t blue-ball me with a blinking hourglass.”
Because nothing screams fairy tale wedding like “Bride possibly knocked up on accident during post-trauma sex with heir to a media empire.”
I take a deep breath. If it’s positive? I’m marrying Alex Vanderbilt pregnant. If it’s negative? I’m still marrying Alex Vanderbilt.
I stare at the stick like it’s a fucking bomb and I’m the least qualified person on Earth to defuse it.
Five minutes, my ass. This thing is taking years.
Meanwhile, I’m wearing a ten-thousand-dollar dress I didn’t even pick, my hair’s been shellacked into some Disney-princess fever dream, and there’s a lady named Colette outside threatening to kick down the damn door if I don’t get moving down that aisle.
God.
Fucking.
Help me.
Because either I’m about to walk into a marriage and a second trimester, or I’ll just be married to a hot billionaire who can’t keep it in his pants but at least pulled out in time. (He didn’t.)
I glance down. The stick’s still loading like it’s buffering a YouTube video from hell.
“Miss Caroline!” Colette screeches again, this time louder. I swear I hear someone jiggle the knob.
“Don’t you dare open that door, Colette,” I bark back. “I swear to God I will drown myself in the decorative fountain if you so much as peek.”
Then—finally—it appears.
Two lines.
Two.
I blink. Lean closer. Shake the stick like maybe that’ll change its mind.
Nope.
Pregnant.
I press my hand to my stomach. My heart does a whole-ass cartwheel. Oh god. I’m going to waddle down the aisle with a Vanderbilt fetus the size of a sesame seed riding shotgun.
There’s a knock again. Softer this time. “Miss Atkins? Are you okay?”
I breathe.
Then grin.
“Better than okay,” I call back, standing up, smoothing the giant, glittering skirt of my overpriced marshmallow dream of a wedding dress, and tucking the test deep into the little satin clutch some poor intern insisted I carry like I’m about to powder my nose instead of blow up Alex’s entire brain
with news of a baby.
I throw the door open like a queen emerging from battle prep, and Colette—flushed, high-strung, and probably microdosing Xanax—nearly cries with relief.
“There she is! Thank God! We’re already five minutes behind and the drones are circling!”
Drones.
Not metaphorical ones—actual flying press machines with cameras zoomed in on my ass and the lace on my veil.
Because apparently the world can’t get enough of this soap opera: hot amnesiac heir rescued by humble nurse in shitty scrubs, gets his memory back, takes down his corrupt father, and proposes to said nurse with a diamond the size of a planet.
And now it’s wedding day.
Live-streamed. Helicopters buzzing overhead like I’m Meghan fucking Markle. I swear one of them just got a close-up of my cleavage.
I’m being dragged through this pristine mansion estate, past so many florals I might sneeze myself into a coma. White roses, chandeliers, gold-trimmed everything. Everything so expensive it could probably pay off national debt if we weren’t busy being tasteful.
Everyone has an opinion about me. I’m either Florence Nightingale with a halo or a manipulative, gold-digging bitch with a stethoscope.
No middle ground.
No “maybe she’s a tired woman in love with a man who used to sleep on her twin mattress and ruin her socks in the laundry.”
Colette clamps a headset to her ear and whispers something about “readying the doves.” I swear to God if there are doves at this wedding—
But then I take a breath. Because I know what’s waiting at the end of that aisle.
Alex.
Standing there in that custom tux, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, eyes locked on me like I personally strung up every star in the sky for him.
My arrogant, gorgeous, ride-or-die idiot of a man.
And he has no fucking clue that he’s about to marry a hormonal, slightly nauseous, possibly already-glowing woman carrying his chaos goblin baby.
The music swells, violins doing the absolute most.
My heels click against marble, my dress flows like a goddamn Disney montage, and when our eyes meet, it’s like the world just…
hushes. For a beat, there’s no press, no tabloids, no helicopters or snide gossip about the gold-digging nurse from Queens.
It’s just me.
And him.
Alex Vanderbilt, trying so fucking hard to be composed, heir-apparent and all that billionaire bravado—but I catch it. The single tear. Slipping down the sharp edge of his cheek like he forgot anyone was watching.
And I know I’m done. This man ruined me for life.
He takes my hand like it’s the only anchor keeping him grounded, leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead. The officiant starts saying something ceremonial and reverent, but Alex’s eyes are on me—narrowed now, suspicious.
“I thought something happened,” he mutters low, only for me. “You scared the shit out of me, Carol. You were late. I thought—fuck—I don’t know what I thought.”
I squeeze his hand, still smiling, trying to keep my composure while very aware of at least two drones aimed directly at my cleavage.
“Sorry,” I whisper, “I just… needed to confirm something.”
His brows scrunch, voice dropping another octave. “Confirm? What the hell did you need to confirm right before you marry me? You’re not second guessing us, are you? Because I swear to God—”
“Jesus Christ, Alex,” I hiss, cutting him off mid-whispered spiral, “I’m not second guessing you. I’m pregnant, okay? That was the thing I needed confirmation of!”
My voice cracks on the last word.
And that’s when the venue goes dead silent.
Even the doves go mute. You could hear a diamond drop.
Alex just blinks. His jaw drops open. His pupils blow so wide I can see every version of fatherhood flash through his brain in .03 seconds. Then his hands tighten around mine.
“Holy fuck,” he breathes, like I just told him aliens landed on the goddamn roof.
“Yeah,” I whisper, grinning like a lunatic. “Surprise.”
He stares at my belly like it just waved at him. Then his gaze flicks back up to mine, grey eyes doing a full emotional stampede—shock, awe, disbelief, pure fucking joy.
And then?
He grabs me like I’m air and he’s been suffocating. Kisses the living shit out of me, right there at the altar, officiant gasping mid-sentence, paparazzi probably snapping shots that’ll headline as “Vanderbilt Loses His Mind Over Secret Baby at Own Wedding”.
Somewhere in the crowd, Collete’s hitting the deck. I can practically hear her pearls clutching themselves.
He pulls back, breath hot on my mouth, voice cracked. “I can’t believe it. Are you—fuck, Carol—are you okay? Are you feeling okay?”
I snort, barely keeping it together. “I’m fine, Alex. Not about to pass out, puke, or give birth at the altar—so can we please get married before someone else needs medical attention?”
He wipes at his face with the back of his hand like he’s not crying. Spoiler: he totally is.
“Right,” he says, eyes still wet. “Marry you first, worship you forever, raise a tiny chaos monster together. Got it.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, laughing now. “You’re gonna be so annoying as a dad.”
“You fucking love it,” he grins.
And yeah. I do.