Tables were arranged in neat rows, each one dressed with lace runners and tiered trays filled with macarons, finger sandwiches, chocolate-covered strawberries, and miniature cupcakes decorated with edible gold dust. There was a three-tier cake standing proudly in the center that looked too perfect to be eaten, decorated with tiny fondant baby shoes and silver stars.
And gift bags. Designer gift bags. At every seat.
I stood near the patio doors, one hand pressed into the curve of my stomach, the other gripping the railing for balance. My back throbbed, my ankles were swollen, and my daughter, or son, had decided my bladder was their personal trampoline for the morning.
Thirty-seven weeks pregnant.
Any day now.
And somehow, I felt like I was standing in someone else’s life.
I swallowed slowly, adjusting the pale blue maternity dress Eleanor had bought for me last week. It hugged my belly tightly, stretching across skin that felt too fragile, too heavy, like my body was preparing for something it still wasn’t sure I could survive.
Me. Hadley Jackson. Former Vegas dancer. Foster kid. The girl who used to count crumpled tips at the end of every shift and pray rent wouldn’t bounce.
Now standing in Beverly Hills with a rockstar’s baby pressing against my ribs.
It didn’t feel real.
“Sweetheart, you shouldn’t be standing that long.”
Eleanor’s voice wrapped around me before her arms did. She slid beside me, carefully placing both hands under my elbow like I might topple over.
“You’re carrying my grandchild, not training for a marathon,” she said softly.
I smiled weakly. “I’m okay. Just… overwhelmed.”
Her eyes softened instantly. “That’s normal. Especially this close.” She crouched slightly, her gaze dropping to my belly like she was greeting the baby directly. “Any contractions today? Tightening? Pressure?”
“Just Braxton Hicks. Nothing consistent.” I hesitated. “And the baby keeps headbutting my bladder.”
Eleanor laughed gently, helping me toward a cushioned chair near the head table. “That means they’re strong. Just like their father.”
My chest tightened at that.
I glanced across the yard where Cal stood near the bar setup with Jake and Kei. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing tattooed forearms as he talked, but his posture was stiff. Guarded. Like he was physically present but mentally calculating every exit in the room.
Our therapy session yesterday still lingered between us like a bruise we kept accidentally pressing.
Him admitting he confused love with control.
Me admitting I felt like I was constantly trying to prove I was worth staying for.
The drive home had been quiet until he reached over and held my hand without saying anything.
Small steps.
Fragile ones.
“He’s nervous,” Eleanor whispered, following my gaze.
“I noticed.”
“He cares more than he knows how to show.”
Before I could respond, Cal started walking toward us. His eyes immediately scanned me head to toe, sharp and assessing.
“You been standing?” he asked.
