Logic said this was just another expression of Richard's control, his need to arrange everything to perfection. But the warmth and emotion rising in me wouldn't go away.
After dinner, Richard didn't go to his study. He sat on the bedroom couch with his files.
I leaned against the headboard, flipping through a magazine without reading a word. Almost six months pregnant now, my belly was unmistakably round, impossible to hide. Sometimes I'd wake at night, touching my swollen stomach, and think this all felt unreal—months ago I was singing on a Vegas stage, and now I was back in LA, being cared for meticulously by a man I'd sworn to leave.
Suddenly, a strong, distinct kick came from inside. I could feel a tiny bulge pressing against my palm.
"Oh!" I gasped.
Richard's head snapped up from his files. "What's wrong? You okay?"
"No, I'm fine." I shook my head, watching the little bump slowly flatten under my hand. A strange joy washed over me—that visceral sense of life connected to mine. Without thinking, I blurted out, "He's moving... want to feel?"
The words were out before I could stop them. I regretted it immediately. I shouldn't share this with him. It was too intimate. Like reaching out first.
But Richard had already set down his report. He stood and walked toward me. Was it my imagination, or was he moving slower than usual? He knelt in front of the couch—this man who was used to towering over people, giving orders—dropped to one knee before me, eye level with my rounded belly.
Richard reached out, hesitant and awkward, and gently placed his hand on my stomach. His palm was large, warm, dry.
The baby kicked right then, as if sensing him.
Richard's hand trembled. His gray-blue eyes widened, filled with astonishment and pure joy.
It was real, unguarded delight and tenderness.
"He moved." Richard's gaze was focused and soft, fixed on my belly like he was looking at the most precious treasure in the world.
Moonlight spilled over him, softening his sharp features.
I watched his profile, watched his earnest expression, watched the tenderness that appeared because of one little kick.
The wall inside me crumbled completely in that moment.
I hated Richard's control, his domineering ways, his refusal to give me freedom, his past coldness and betrayal.
I was still afraid, still anxious, still couldn't fully trust he'd changed for good.
But I had to admit—I craved this warmth, craved Richard's clumsy devotion.
I told myself not to fall for him again, not to let my heart soften, not to sink back in.
But my heart had stopped listening long ago.
Maybe Gina was right. Maybe I should give Richard a chance. Right?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Richard
I was satisfied with how things were going with Natalie. Most of the time.
Every morning, I'd find her at the breakfast table in loose loungewear, hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep. Gone were the hysterics and sharp confrontations from the beginning. She'd even mumble a "thanks" when I handed her that specially made low-caffeine latte. At dinner, she'd started lingering, sometimes talking about a book she'd read that day or complaining about some god-awful healthy recipe. Occasionally, I'd let her visit the rose greenhouse behind the manor with tight security, or I'd drive her myself to some exclusive members-only garden club for a half-hour walk.
I liked this calm. Made me feel like I was getting things back under control, like a storm-tossed ship finally entering a harbor where I could plot the course.
Except for her constant bringing up moving out.
Like now.
