Page 123 of Babies for the Big Shot
There’s art I probably couldn’t afford if I sold a kidney. A grand piano I’m ninety percent sure he doesn’t play. The ceilings are cathedral height. There’s a fireplace taller than me.
And it’s quiet. The kind of quiet that costs a fortune.
“I… wow,” I breathe, stepping inside.
“I know it’s a lot,” Nick says, watching me closely.
“No, I mean… it’s beautiful. But also, like, palatial. Where’s the moat?”
He huffs out a small laugh. “Out back. With the dragons.”
Meatball trots in, owning the place.
I skim my fingers along the back of a velvet armchair, fighting the sense that I’ve stepped into a story that isn’t mine.
“Come on,” Nick says gently. “Let me show you the guest room. You can settle in, and we’ll figure everything else out tomorrow.”
I nod, still in a daze.
Still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Still half-convinced this is some fever dream brought on by morning sickness and stress and my body suddenly producing three humans at once.
Nick disappears down the hall and returns a few minutes later with a menu and his phone in hand.
“Takeout options,” he says, like we’re negotiating a high-stakes contract instead of tiptoeing around our emotional wreckage. “Thai? Italian? Something that doesn’t smell like regret?”
I arch a brow. “Does that mean no garlic knots?”
He smiles, and God, it’s unfair, how much that smile still hits me in the chest. “We’ll make an exception. You’re eating for four.”
I groan and bury my face in Meatball’s fur. “Don’t say it like that. I already feel like a bloated science experiment.”
“Beautiful science experiment,” he corrects.
I peek at him. “Suck up.”
“Pregnant woman with three future Ashfords in her body. I’m not taking chances.”
We order pasta and salad and enough garlic knots to qualify as reckless, and by the time the food arrives, I’ve kicked off my shoes and curled into the corner of his oversized couch. It’s absurdly comfortable, the kind of couch you sink into and never leave, a trap laid by someone with deep pockets and a Pinterest addiction.
The city lights twinkle beyond the glass, and for the first time all day, I feel… almost okay.
We eat cross-legged on the floor, boxes spread out between us, Meatball shamelessly begging from both sides. I tell Nick about the prenatal appointment, the heart beat, the measurements, the moment I cried without realizing I was crying.
He listens. Quiet, focused, nodding in all the right places.
He tells me he’s been working with Jonah to figure out who the woman in the security footage is, that he’s already increased building security and changed his office access codes.
“You don’t have to handle this alone,” he tells me.
I want to believe him. I really do.
But believing means letting my guard down again, and the last time I did that, it ended with a slammed door and a full-blown scandal.
Still, tonight is different. Warmer. More real.
We talk about small things after that. Non-threatening things. Childhood stories. The best pizza in the city. Meatball’s mysterious vendetta against delivery men.
