Chapter 15: A Morning of Our Own
The sunlight didn't slant through the blinds of that old downtown loft where every shadow felt calculated and every footstep echoed like a warning. Here, in the second-floor apartment we had moved into two months ago, the morning light came in wide and golden, pooling across maple hardwood floors that didn't creak under your weight. It was quiet enough to hear the robins in the oak tree outside the window, their small, frantic movements the only sound breaking the early hours.
I stood by the kitchen counter, wearing a cream knit sweater that felt soft against my skin, watching the steam curl up from the ceramic mug of black coffee I'd poured. My reflection in the double-paned window showed a face that had lost the hollow, haunted look of winter. The dark circles under my eyes were gone, replaced by a steady color that came from sleeping through the night without waking in a cold sweat. Below the hem of the sweater, my abdomen swelled out in a firm, undeniable curve. The baby stirred just then—a sudden, lazy roll that pressed hard against my diaphragm. I smiled, resting both palms flat against the warm fabric, feeling the solid, rhythmic thud of a heartbeat that wasn't mine.
The front door clicked open, the heavy deadbolt sliding back with a smooth, oiled hiss that required no force at all. Marcus stepped inside, bringing with him the sharp, clean scent of morning air and dew. He shrugged out of his dark jacket, hanging it carefully on the peg by the door. His shoulders were broad beneath a simple gray t-shirt, the ink of his neck tattoos catching the pale light as he turned toward the kitchen. He wasn't wearing a suit today. He hadn't worn one since the night of the gala, since the day Julian's name stopped being a weather system that governed our lives.
Marcus's mouth curved into an easy, unhurried smile when he saw me standing by the counter. In his right hand, he carried a crinkled brown paper bag, the kind from the small Italian bakery two blocks down where the old woman behind the counter always remembered his name and gave him extra napkins.
"You're up early," Marcus said, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrated right through the quiet room. He walked over, his stride long and unforced, and set the bag down on the butcher block between us.
"The little one had opinions about the sunrise," I said, leaning into his side as he wrapped a heavy arm around my waist, pulling me gently against his chest. I could feel the solid heat of him, the steady, unshakeable anchor he'd been through every brutal month of the fallout. Julian's trial was crawling through the federal courts with slow, bureaucratic indifference, but the financial crimes division had locked down every account, every dummy corporation, every asset. Julian was fighting from behind a glass wall of high-priced defense lawyers who were slowly realizing their retainer checks were bouncing. He was irrelevant. He was just a footnote in a financial ledger waiting for a judge's stamp.
Marcus reached into the brown paper bag and pulled out a warm, powdered sfogliatella, its pastry crust flaking gently onto the wood. He broke it in half, handing me the larger piece with the careful, instinctive precision he used for everything—treating my hands, my space, my peace as something precious that had once been broken and required delicate mending.
"Fresh," he said. "Still hot."
I took a bite, the crisp shell shattering softly against my teeth, sweet and rich with orange zest and ricotta. I closed my eyes for a second, chewing slowly, letting the simple, unpretentious taste ground me completely in the present. There was no performance here. No public image to maintain, no whispered insults delivered behind a glass pastry case, no sudden cruelties masked as casual conversation. There was only this kitchen, the smell of roasted coffee, and the heavy, reassuring weight of Marcus's hand resting right over my baby bump.
We sat together at the small wooden table by the window, eating our pastries in a companionable silence that needed no filling. Down on the street, a mail truck groaned to a stop, its brakes hissing before the driver tossed a bundle of letters into a corner box and drove on. Life outside was moving at its own frantic, ordinary American pace—people rushing to offices, delivery vans double-parking, children running for school buses. But inside, our world had narrowed down to the essential things.
Marcus reached across the table and traced the line of my jaw with his thumb, his calloused skin rough against my cheek, then let his hand drop to rest beside mine on the table. Our fingers brushed, then linked together naturally, the grip firm and warm.
"Are you ready for today?" he asked softly, his dark eyes searching mine with a quiet attentiveness that never missed a shift in my breathing. "Dr. Evans said we should check in around eleven."
May you like
I looked down at our joined hands, then up at the bright, clear sky stretching over the rooftops across the street. The fear that used to live behind my ribs—that cold, hard knot that told me nothing good could last without a price—was completely gone. There was only room for what was coming.
"I'm ready," I said, and for the first time in my life, every word was entirely, perfectly true.
