Chapter 1: The Weight Against My Sweater
The glass pastry cases of the bakery caught the amber glare of the warm pendant fixtures, scattering little points of yellow light across the dark wooden walls. Around us, the room hummed with the steady hiss of the espresso machine and the quiet murmur of the mid-morning crowd. I had been standing near the counter, holding the small brown paper bag containing our bakery items, pressing it gently against the rounding swell of my baby bump beneath my cream knit sweater. My brown hair was pinned up in a neat updo, a few stray strands catching the indoor draft.
Julian stood just inches away. He wore his dark maroon suit and a crisp black shirt, his short dark hair neatly trimmed above a sharply shaped beard. He looked every bit the successful corporate executive he wanted the city to see, polished and immaculate. But his gaze dropped lazily down my frame, lingering on the physical change in my body before meeting my eyes with a cold, practiced indifference.
"You've gotten fat," he said.
The words dropped into the space between us, stripped of any warmth or pretense, delivered with the casual cruelty he reserved exclusively for private audiences when no board members or journalists were watching.
I looked down. My breath caught in my throat, a sharp pang of hurt radiating outward from my chest as the familiar wave of humiliation washed over me. Without thinking, my hand moved instinctively, gripping the brown paper bag tightly against my knit sweater. My fingers tensed over my baby bump, pressing the rough paper into the fabric as if the thin layer of cardboard and wool could somehow shield me from his assessment. The silence stretched tight between us, heavy and suffocating, despite the surrounding clatter of porcelain cups and low conversations.
Then the space behind me shifted.
A tall, muscular man in a black suit walked into the frame from behind, stepping smoothly between Julian and me. The sharp ink of neck tattoos crept up past his collar, stark against his skin. Marcus stood with an intense, unreadable expression, his broad shoulders blocking Julian entirely from my view. He didn't raise his voice, and he didn't make a scene, but his sudden, solid presence altered the gravity of the room. He stood close, his shoulder brushing mine in an unspoken gesture of absolute defense.
Marcus turned his head slightly, his gaze locking directly onto the man in the maroon suit in dead silence. Julian’s jaw tightened, his public composure flickering for a fraction of a second as he looked up at the taller man blocking his path.
"Are you ready to go?" Marcus asked.
His voice was low, steady, and entirely level, cutting through the ambient hum of the cafe. It wasn't a question that invited debate; it was a clear boundary drawn in the center of a crowded room.
May you like
I swallowed hard, the tightness in my chest easing just a fraction under the weight of his steady support. I nodded once, keeping my grip firm on the paper bag against my sweater. "Yes," I murmured.
Without another glance at Julian, who stood frozen in his maroon suit beneath the warm pendant lighting, Marcus guided me with a gentle, firm hand at my elbow. We turned away from the pastry cases, stepping past the dark wooden tables and out through the heavy glass doors into the cool, clear air of the street, leaving the hum of the bakery and Julian's quiet cruelty behind us.
