“But you know what?” he said. “Being hurt is worth it if it means having you in my life. Being vulnerable is worth it if it means being with you.”
His voice dropped.
“Natalie,” he said. “I love you.”
The words tumbled out—raw, unpolished, completely sincere.
“I’ve loved you since that first night,” he said. “Maybe since the first moment I saw you across that ballroom, looking like you wanted to be anywhere else. I love your strength and your stubbornness and the way you stand up to my mother. I love that you refused her money even though you needed it. I love that you’re terrified and doing this anyway.”
Natalie’s vision blurred.
“I’m so scared,” she whispered.
“Me too,” he said. “But I’m more scared of losing you. Of our child growing up without both of us. Of spending the rest of my life wondering ‘what if.’”
He cupped her face.
“I need you to tell me one thing,” he said. “On the phone… you said you loved me. Did you mean it?”
She looked at him.
At this brilliant, damaged man who was trying so hard.
At the father of her child.
At the only person who had ever made her feel both completely terrified and completely safe.
“I love you,” she said. “God help me, I love you so much it scares me.”
The kiss was inevitable.
It was also perfect.
When they finally broke apart, Benjamin was covering Jasmine’s eyes.
“Gross,” Jasmine said. But she was smiling.
“Necessary,” Carter corrected.
He stood, pulling Natalie up with him.
“I need to fix this,” he said. “The press. Charlotte’s lies. My mother’s interference. All of it. Will you let me?”
“I don’t want you to fix me,” she said. “I want you to be with me.”
“Then be with me,” he said. “Move in with me. Let me support you while you rebuild your career. Let me be there for doctor appointments and midnight cravings and everything in between. Let me be your partner.”
She looked at Gran, who nodded.
At Benjamin and Jasmine, who looked hopeful.
At Carter, who looked like a man offering her his whole heart.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Yes. Let’s do this.”
PART FOUR – HOME, A DAUGHTER, AND HAPPILY EVER AFTER
Moving into Carter’s penthouse was like stepping into a different universe.
Her entire Brooklyn apartment could fit inside the master bedroom. The guest room closet was bigger than her old bedroom. The kitchen had appliances she’d never seen in real life.
“This is insane,” she muttered on her third morning there, staring at the espresso machine. “Who needs a coffee maker that costs more than a used car?”
“Someone who drinks a lot of coffee,” Carter said, coming up behind her and pressing a series of buttons.
The machine whirred to life.
“Also, it makes excellent hot chocolate. Which you like.”
“I like the hot chocolate from the bodega on the corner,” she said.
“This is better,” he said. “Trust me.”
He handed her a mug topped with foam.
She took a cautious sip.
“I hate that you’re right,” she muttered.
“Get used to it,” he said. “I’m right about most things.”
“And so humble,” she replied.
He grinned.
They were still figuring out how to live together. Still learning each other’s rhythms. Still navigating the weird space between “we’re having a baby” and “we’re a couple.”
Some things were easy.
Like the way she started falling asleep on the couch halfway through movies and waking up with a blanket over her and Carter’s arm around her waist.
Or the way he reflexively reached for her hand in elevators.
Or how he started talking to her belly the moment the books told him the baby could hear.
“Hey, little one,” he would murmur, crouching down. “It’s your dad. We had a board meeting today. It was terrible. Don’t worry, I survived.”
Her favorite new memory came one evening when she was trying—and failing—to cook her grandmother’s Portuguese chicken stew.
“This doesn’t look right,” she said, frowning into the pot.
“Is it supposed to be that color?” Carter asked.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Maybe I added too much paprika.”
“How much did the recipe call for?” he asked.
“A teaspoon,” she said.
“How much did you add?” he asked.
“Two tablespoons,” she said.
He stared.
“That’s not ‘a little more,’” he said. “That’s six times more.”
“Well, the recipe should be clearer,” she said.
He started laughing.
“You just can’t measure,” he said.
She turned to glare at him and found him looking at her with so much affection it stole her breath.
“What?” she demanded.
“You’re standing in my ridiculously fancy kitchen covered in paprika, arguing with me about measurements while trying to make your grandmother’s stew,” he said. “And I’ve never been happier.”
“You’re weird,” she said.
“Probably,” he admitted. “But I’m your weird.”
He pulled her close—careful of her growing belly.
“Dance with me,” he said.
“There’s no music,” she protested.
“So?” he said. He pulled out his phone and hit play.
Frank Sinatra’s voice drifted through the speakers.
They swayed together on the kitchen tiles, his hand warm on her back, her cheek resting against his shoulder.
“I love you,” he murmured into her hair.
“I love you too,” she whispered. “Even though you mocked my cooking.”
“I wasn’t mocking,” he said. “I was observing. Affectionately.”
“Liar,” she said.
He spun her gently, and she laughed.
Then she froze.
“Oh,” she gasped.
“What?” he demanded instantly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “I just—” She grabbed his hand and pressed it to her belly. “Wait. Don’t move.”
They stood perfectly still.
And then there it was.
A flutter.
Soft. Like butterfly wings.
“Was that…?” he whispered.
“She’s moving,” Natalie said, her voice shaking. “The baby’s moving.”
His eyes went wide.
“That was her,” he said. “Our baby.”
He dropped to his knees, hands cradling her belly.
“Hey there, little one,” he whispered. “That’s quite the kick. You’re going to be a soccer player, aren’t you?”
Another flutter.
He laughed—a sound of pure, unfiltered joy—and rested his forehead against her stomach.
“I’m your dad,” he said softly. “I already love you more than I ever thought possible. You and your mom—you’re my whole world.”
Natalie’s tears fell freely now, one hand tangled in his hair, the other resting over his.
This moment—this perfect, impossible moment—felt like a promise.
At twenty weeks, they had the anatomy scan.
Natalie was terrified.
“What if something’s wrong?” she asked for the seventeenth time that morning.
“Then we’ll deal with it together,” Carter said, squeezing her hand. “But nothing is going to be wrong.”
“You don’t know that,” she said.
“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t. But I know that worrying won’t change anything. And I know that whatever happens, we face it as a team.”
The ultrasound technician moved the wand across her rounded belly.
“There’s the head,” she narrated. “Arms. Legs. Spine looks good. Four‑chamber heart, all working beautifully.”
Natalie’s relief was so intense she started crying.
“Would you like to know the sex?” the tech asked.
They looked at each other.
They’d agreed to find out.
“Do you?” she asked.
“I think,” he said, “that I want to know everything about them. Every detail. Every possibility. So yes, please.”
The technician adjusted the angle.
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