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“Today, sure,” she whispers. “And what about tomorrow?”
I wish I were confident enough in myself to give her some reassurance. But the honest truth? I’ve never had to curb myself before. I’ve never had to compromise or listen or consider another person’s thoughts or feelings. Elena never expected it of me. She never seemed to expect anything of me other than my mere presence—and even that was more of a gift than an expectation.
Bee’s words filter into my consciousness. How can any healthy relationship be so one-sided? It’s not a mirror I want to look into right now.
“I’m not in the habit of making promises for tomorrow.”
She lets her forehead loll against the window. “Elena must have been a saint.”
I swallow the jab on the tip of my tongue. I just promised not to fight her today and I intend to keep that promise, selfish though it might be. The cameras are waiting for us where we’re going and I need to put on a show for the world.
“We’ll be there soon. Stay close to me at all times.”
“Are you going to tell me why we’re really doing this?” she asks, her breath fogging the glass.
“I’ve heard Lamaze can be very beneficial to new parents.”
She snorts. More fog. Little puffs on the window, physical proof of how little she trusts me. “That’s a great line. Now, how about the truth?”
“How about you just trust me?”
“Sorry, I’m not in the habit of blind trust. You want me to trust you? You’re gonna have to tell me what you’re playing at.”
We round the corner and the Lamaze studio comes into view. I park in front, get out of the car first, and walk around to Wren’s door. Already, I can spy two photographers with their cameras poised at the ready, but I pretend I don’t see them. It’s not until the moment Wren steps out onto the pavement that the flashes start to go off.
“What the…?” She gapes over at the small throng of photographers that are starting to amass. Then those huge eyes land on me, wide with alarm. “Dmitri…”
It feels good hearing her say my name in that way—like she’s looking to me to fix something. Looking to me for protection.
“Don’t worry,” I assure her. “Just ignore them.”
The shock on her face dissolves into suspicion. I throw an arm around her waist and steer her towards the tinted glass door. Just before we disappear underneath the frame, she looks back over her shoulder. There’s a chaos of flashes and then I close the door.
As soon as we’re inside, Wren whips around in the subtly perfumed corridor and glares up at me. “Explain yourself.”
I arch an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“You’re all about anonymity. If those photographers were out there, it’s because you want them to be. Am I right?”
It’s moments like these that I get why my father valued empty-headed women. The smart ones notice too much. And they ask too many questions when they do.
“You’re… not wrong.”
“This whole time, I’ve been your dirty little secret—and now, you want me exposed?”
My fists clench at my side. “Not exposed; I want you shielded,” I growl. “Right now, everyone thinks that you’re Cian’s captive?—”
“—which I was?—”
“—and I need to make sure they know that you’re safe and under my protection.”
“You just don’t want your enemies to think you can’t protect me.”
I see movement through the second set of glass doors that lead deeper into the studio. “This is a conversation for another time, Wren.”
“I’m just a pawn in your game, aren’t I?” I almost wish she said it angrily, but instead, the words wilt and die on their way past her lips.
Not anger, but sadness.
