Page 79 of Glitterati Omega

He met Rupert’s gaze again. “I amveryworried.”

“Well, now I’m worried too,” Rupert grumbled, sitting back. He folded his arms.

“I agreed to this,” Winston said, “because it seemed to me that if you didn’t try, you would not be long for this world anyway, and I do not like that thought either.”

Rupert stiffened. Winston swallowed. “That is not good grounds to let someone have a baby at all—postpartum depression and psychosis is very real, and I believe you have a much higher risk.”

Rupert shifted nervously. Winston rambled on: “So, perhaps you will have this baby and kill yourself anyway. Perhaps you will die during childbirth. I do not know—but it seemed very certain that youwoulddo something drastic, that not having a baby would take you from me sooner. So perhaps I am wrong and you will be fine. But I am worried.”

Rupert sighed, unfolding his arms. “Winnie.”

“I would very much rather have you alive than anything else.”

Rupert tilted his head. “Winston—”

“Ndileka has never forgiven me. I know you don’t want that for your child. But I worry that my grief would be too great to forgive them.”

Rupert considered for a long moment. Then he got up and scooted around the coffee table, plonking down onto the loveseat beside the alpha. He waited for their gazes to connect, then picked up Winston’s hand. “First of all,” he said, “I think you could forgive them, because you’re not your mother. Second, you know what that feels like—to be held responsible, to not be able to gain forgiveness. I think it’s the same as me, then—I don’t want my child to experience what I did. I don’t think you want yours to experience the hurt you’ve felt.”

He leaned back and guided Winston’s hand over his low belly, then placed his own on top. “And, you know, I wouldn’t forgive you for that, so I’d like to think you’d at least make an effort. And finally … even if this makes me sick, even if this kills me, I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

He took a deep breath. “I don’t want to say too much yet—I’m worried too, but for a different reason. It’s so soon, and … so much could happen.”

He glanced at Winston. “I’m very worried about that. So don’t suggest that we should end this on my account. I don’t think I can go through that again, Winston.”

The alpha closed his eyes tight. “Rupert.”

“Unfortunately, you are quite right about me. I know that’s difficult to hear, but it’s the truth. So please … let’s focus on getting everyone through this next little bit alive, all right? Not just me.”

Winston glanced away. “Fine,” he groused finally, as though the word was vile.

Rupert smiled at him. “Let’s have some dinner,” he said. “I haven’t had a proper meal all day, but I think I’m coming around.”

“I was thinking curry—”

“Heavens,no. Have mercy on me, Winnie—maybe just some saltines and broth for me, I think that’s all I can manage right now.”

,

Spring turned to summer in Houston, bringing with it swampy humidity. They sold both Winston’s house and the house in Pretoria; the house in Johannesburg was next. Winston had passed much of the business land holdings to his colleagues to deal with. Rupert hadn’t given him the whole portfolio yet; there were still a few properties he wanted to think on more.

He got a text from Alina one morning, informing him that she and Elise were going to London for the summer; Alina was leaving her executive chef in charge of L’Atelier Wren while she accompanied her fiancée on a grand tour of Europe before returning to New York Fashion Week in early September.

Rupert realized that he hadn’t spoken to them since he’d stormed out of their apartment that evening in April, despite a string of texts and voicemail from both of them. He hadn’t felt well for weeks; between bone-deep exhaustion (when he spent most of the day in bed) and being violently ill, he hadn’t thought much beyond himself and perhaps Winston. That had to change.

Rupert invited Alina and Elise for dinner, then set about trying to decide on his wardrobe. It was then he made a horrifying discovery: nothing fit.

He was a bit embarrassed to realize he hadn’t made it through ten weeks, yet every single piece of clothing he pulled on was straining at its seams: one no longer fit through the bust, and another didn’t want to slide up over his hips. A lot of his outfits had cinched waists, in an effort to make him look smaller than he was, but they fit all wrong now, tugging and pulling snug over what hardly counted as a bump. He scarcely looked pregnant—just heavy, and he glared at his reflection.

He finally found something that fit him well enough to be comfortable, although it was a little tight through the bust (he hadcleavage, he realized, peering down at his chest).

“It’s too bad you’re leaving,” he told Elise and Alina when they arrived at the penthouse. “I think I need to do some shopping.”

Elise’s eyebrows were in her hairline. “I’ll say,” she huffed. “Where the heck did you get that get-up?”

Rupert put his hands in the pockets of the jumpsuit. “Back of the closet?”

“It should have stayed there,” Elise grumbled. “That went out of style three, four seasons ago, Roo.”