“She feels so light,” I whisper as she starts to root at my breast. I’ve read so many forums and so many books that I know this is a natural instinct, and I let her take charge.
“She’s tiny and she’s already got your stubborn streak, that’s for sure. She was fighting the swaddle,” he says his eyes staying on our daughter.
“Well, would you want to be wrapped in a fake cocoon when you’ve been inside your mommy for nearly ten months? How do you feel about Élodie for her first name, and you can pick her middle name,” I murmur, my finger tracing the incredible, velvety soft skin of her cheek.
“I like that, and it is your grandmother’s middle name. How about we use Anastasia, my mother’s middle name. It means resurrection, a new beginning,” Vik agrees. We’ve been waffling over which names to use and where, but holding her in my arms, seeing her facial features, the name fits.
“Élodie Anastasia Orlov. It’s perfect.” A few tears blur my vision again as I look back down at the tiny miracle resting on my chest.
“It’s perfect because she’s yours,” Vik whispers, pressing his lip in a long, deeply devoted kiss to my bare shoulder. “Because we made her. I love you, Romy.”
“She’s perfect because she’s ours,” I fix his statement. “And I love you, too, Vik,” I breathe.
“Next up is changing your last name.” My eyes were almost closed, when he opens the can of worms.
“And we will, once I lose the baby weight.” I want Élodie to be a part of our ceremony. I also don’t want to be worried about fitting into a dress and feeling unconfident.
“You’re perfect the way you are, Romy. I’d marry you right now if you’d let me.” He absolutely would. He’s tried multiple times to get me to the courthouse at every turn possible.
“November seventh,” I tell him as I close my eyes, his words wrapping around me, completely cementing our future right here and now.
“Perfect, both of you.” He presses a kiss to the crown of my head. I settle deeper into our family hold, happy and content.
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Coming Next is Tell Me You Want Me, Alex and Dante’s story
Amazon
Prologue
Alex
Consciousness doesn’t return to me in a gentle, sunlit wave. Instead, it hits me like a physical blow, dragging, kicking, and screaming from the heavy, suffocating depths of a dreamless sleep.
“Ugh,” I groan, the sound catching painfully in the back of my throat that feels like it’s been lined with sandpaper. My mouth is bone-dry, tasting of stale, expensive champagne and a lingering, warmth I can’t quite name. A pounding ache vibrates behind my eyes, matching the frantic beat of my pulse. I try toroll over, but my body refuses to cooperate. I’m pinned, tangled in a Charlotte’s web of heavy sheets and a plush duvet. My hair—usually a tamed, glossy cascades of is a currently a wild, static charged bird’s nest, clinging to my damn neck, and obscuring my vision. I blink against the dim light filtering through the heavy, blackout curtains of the room.
Where the hell am I?
The thought sparks a sudden, icy jolt of adrenaline. I bolt upright, at least I try to, before the room spins violently, forcing me to squeeze my eyes shut. When the tilt-a-whirl rollercoaster subsided, I look down. The mattress beneath me is massive, a sprawling king-size bed, crisp, white cotton sheets, and a heavy duvet that’s entirely unfamiliar. I don’t own sheets that aren’t colorful, nor do I sleep on a mattress that feels like a literal cloud. I lift the edge of the sheet, peaking underneath, my heart beats like a stampede of wild horses.
Nothing. I’m not wearing a single stitch of clothing.
Panic, sharp, and cold flares in my chest, I scan the dimly lit room, my eyes darting from the sleek, mid-century modern nightstands to the massive flat screen TV that’s mounted on the wall, and to finally the luggage rack in the corner. My familiar, slightly scuffed designer suitcase is half-undone with a black silk camisole spilling out of the side. I let out a long, breath, my shoulders sagging in relief, and the tension leaves my body in a rush.
At least I’m in my hotel room.
The relief is short-lived, quickly replaced by a sense of dread. If this is my room in Las Vegas, why can’t I remember getting back to it and why does my entire being feel utterly, exhausted as if I spent last night running a marathon.
I throw my legs over the edge of the mattress, I cling to the top sheet like a makeshift toga, securing the heavy fabric around my naked body. When I stand up, my knees wobbly, my balancethreatening to betray me. I anchor my grip on the nightstand, before I navigate the short distance to the bathroom, the chaotic-ness that’s my mind is full of blank spaces and shadowy half-memories.
My bleary eyes can’t handle the entirely too bright LED lighting in the bathroom, so I do my best to avoid it and the mirror all together. I know exactly what I would see in my reflection: dark circles, smudged mascara, and the look of a woman who let Vegas win. Me, the woman who always has her shit together, who can go against men who think they’re smarter than me, and here I am not having the stomach to face my reflection just yet.
I drop the sheets, walk straight toward the walk-in glass shower, turn the handle all the way to hot, and without waiting a beat or for the water to create a steam, I step inside. My eyes close as I lift my head, allowing the stream fall and work it’s magic against my aching muscles, washing away the physical reminder of a night I couldn’t place. I raise my hands to sweep my wet hair back and wash the sleep from my face.
But as I life my left hand, something feels off. A strange, subtle sensation, like a weight is pulling at my finger. I pause, my hands hovering inches from my face. I pop open one eye, my gaze focusing on my hand, and my stomach plummets to my feet.
On my finger, my very important ring finger is a platinum band, dominated by a massive, emerald-cut diamond. The harsh bathroom light catches on the brilliancy, dazzling rainbows dance across the gem. It’s stunning, unapologetically descendant, and worst of all…real.
