Saying "the baby" softened my voice involuntarily.
My baby. The thought struck again, bringing a tremor of strange, unfamiliar tenderness. But looking at her stubborn, pale profile, that softness froze over again.
"It's my baby too! I have the right to decide where he's born and how he lives!" She shot back hoarsely, but the fight had drained from her voice, leaving only helpless anger.
I slowly turned back, looking at her, my gaze dropping to the slight swell of her belly where our tiny life was growing.
"I'm this baby's father, Natalie. So from now on, I'm the one making the decisions."
This time, I wouldn't let my wife slip away with my child.
Not again.
Never.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Natalie
What's the difference between this and imprisonment?
The moment the car pulled into Blackwood Manor, I knew exactly what I'd become again. A canary in a gilded cage.
First day back, the security had doubled. Black-suited guards everywhere—at the gate, along the drive, in the courtyard. If I wanted to leave, I needed Richard's permission. Every trip required a driver, bodyguards, and a strict curfew.
Christ, who treats a pregnant woman like this? Unbelievable.
And that wasn't all. Richard had my entire life micromanaged.
A top-tier prenatal team came every three days. Blood draws, blood pressure checks, ultrasounds—ten times more thorough than anything I'd gotten in Vegas. The nutritionist measured my meals down to the gram. Even my snacks were calibrated to my daily stats. They'd even brought in some soft-spoken therapist to monitor my emotional state.
I kept reminding myself not to be moved by any of this. Richard only cared because he wanted a healthy baby.
But he did more than that.
After he noticed my leg cramps at night, a pregnancy massage chair appeared in the bedroom the next day.
When I couldn't stand the lily diffusers anymore, every scent in the house was replaced with unscented humidifiers by that afternoon.
I mentioned craving a specific brand of pickles once. Next day, there they were in the fridge—air-shipped from Europe because they weren't sold in the States.
These things were too small to matter, and too big for me to ignore.
"Ma'am, your tea." Joseph appeared at the living room door with a silver tray, setting down lavender tea and a plate of whole-grain nut cookies. "Mr. Winston called. The board meeting's running late. He won't make dinner. No need to wait for him."
I picked up the warm cup and nodded. That faint hope I'd been nurturing for dinner—hope I didn't even want to admit to—deflated like a punctured balloon. First time Richard had missed dinner since we got back to LA. God, was it the pregnancy hormones? My chest felt oddly tight.
Then I heard movement in the foyer.
"Hey! This place is still scary huge! Where's my girl Natalie?"
I turned, startled, and there was Gina with a gift bag, red hair sharp as ever, power shirt and skirt, blowing through the door like a ray of sunlight cutting through the house's oppressive quiet.
"Gina!" My voice came out more eager than I'd expected.
Gina's eyes lit up when she saw me. She threw her arms around me. "God, you've gotten fat! Wait—honey, you finally look pregnant!"
"How'd you get in here?" I glanced behind her. No Richard. No one trying to stop her.
