Page 103 of Nine Months to Love
“That’s different,” I insist.
“Is it?”
I don’t answer.
“Your mother and I care about each other,” Dad continues. “We respect each other. We work well together. But we’re not in love. We haven’t been for a very long time. Maybe we never were.”
“Then why did you get married?”
“Because it made sense. Our families approved, our careers aligned, and we were compatible on paper.” He shrugs. “Love seemed... optional.”
Love doesn’t feel optional with Stefan. It feels inevitable. It’s an all-consuming plummet from everything I ever knew into a deep, turbulent where nothing makes sense and everything is terrifyinglyunoptional.
“I don’t want that,” I say quietly. “For myself or for my baby. I don’t want a life that’s just convenient.”
“Then don’t choose it.” Dad crosses his legs and looks at me, not unkindly. “But understand that every choice has consequences. Love is messy. It’s unpredictable. It makes you vulnerable in ways that simpler arrangements never do.”
“You sound like you’re talking from experience.”
He smiles, but it’s sad. “I am. The person I’m seeing... I care about them. More than I probably should. More than is wise.” He looks out at the dark garden. “But it’s not something I can build a life around. Not in a way that matters.”
“Why not?”
“Because some things are worth more than love, Olivia. Security, stability, the ability to control your own narrative—those things have value, too.” He turns back to me. “Your mother understands that. She’s always understood that. It’s why we work as partners.”
I want to argue. To tell him he’s wrong. Love should be worth more than convenience and happiness matters more than appearances.
But the words stick in my throat.
Because isn’t that exactly what I’ve been doing? I’ve accepted Stefan’s protection at the cost of my pride. I’ve stayed in his house even when he hurts me? Accepting his money, his influence, his control over my life—that’s a choice, isn’t it?
All because leaving feels impossible.
Maybe I’m more like my parents than I want to admit.
The thought makes me feel sick.
“Don’t tell your mother we had this conversation,” Dad says suddenly. “She’ll kill me.”
“Why? If you have an arrangement, what does it matter?”
“Because your mother values discretion above all else. She doesn’t like her private life discussed. Even with you.” He chuckles and adds, “Especially with you.”
“Why especially with me?”
“Because you’re the one thing she can’t control, no matter how hard she tries.” He smiles slightly. “It drives her crazy.”
“She tries her hardest to control me,” I point out.
“‘Tries’ being the operative word. But you’ve never quite fit into the mold she wanted for you. You’ve always been difficult.”
“Difficult.”
“Independent. Strong-willed. Your own person. Choose whichever word suits you best.” He pauses. “It’s not a criticism, to be clear. If you ask me, it’s actually quite admirable.”
That might be the nicest thing he’s ever said to me.
“I don’t feel very admirable right now,” I admit.
