But I can't say that.
"She's a good kid. Deserves nice things."
Zola's expression softens fractionally. "Yeah. She does."
Maeve drops the elephant. I pick it up, wipe it on my shirt, hand it back. She grabs it with both hands and immediately tries to eat it again, making happy gurgling sounds.
I could do this forever. Just sit here with this baby and the woman I never stopped loving, pretending we're something normal.
Two weeks in,I'm walking Maeve around the bookstore while Zola handles a customer. The baby's fighting sleep, squirming and fussing, but she settles when I hum something low and tuneless.
"You're good with her," Zola says once the customer leaves. She's sorting through a box of new arrivals, pulling out books and checking them against an invoice.
"She's easy."
"She's not." Zola glances up. "She screams for two hours straight sometimes. Won't sleep unless someone's holding her. Has a specific cry for every possible need and I still can't tell them apart half the time."
"Sounds exhausting."
"It is." She pulls out another book, frowning at the cover. "But she's—she's everything, you know?"
I adjust Maeve, feeling her weight go slack as she finally gives up and falls asleep. "You're doing a good job with her."
Zola scoffs. "I have no idea what I'm doing."
"You show up. You hold her when she cries. You keep her safe." I meet her eyes across the space between us. "That's what matters."
She stares at me. Something cracks in her expression—vulnerability showing through the armor she wears.
Then she looks away. "I should finish this inventory."
But her walls are a little lower. Her voice a little softer.
I'm getting somewhere. Slowly. Carefully.
The house feels colderevery time I go back. Bianca's there more often now, making pointed comments about where I've been spending my time.
"You're never here anymore," she says one evening, standing in the doorway of my office with her arms crossed. She's in another expensive dress, another attempt to get a reaction.
"I have work."
"Work." She laughs, sharp and bitter. "Right. Work."
I don't look up from the ledger I'm reviewing. "Did you need something?"
"I need my husband to actually be present in our marriage."
Our marriage. The words are ridiculous. This was never a marriage—just a business arrangement that neither of us wanted. She knows it as well as I do.
"Then you should have married someone who wanted you."
Her face flushes. "You're a bastard."
"I am." I finally look at her. "But you knew that when you said yes. Don't act surprised now."
She storms out. I hear her heels clicking down the hallway, hear her bedroom door slam hard enough to rattle the windows.
Good. Maybe she'll finally realize this isn't going to become whatever fantasy she's built in her head.
