Page 238 of Diego

Donna is safe.

And somewhere upstairs, Aria Conti has just made this already enormous family just a little bigger.

Morning light spills across the penthouse windows while Diego stands near the kitchen island talking through everything that has to happen at the lake house before we can go back.

The exterior gates have to be replaced entirely. Several windows are gone. There is damage to the rear terrace, walls that need repair, flooring that has to come up where blood got into the grout, and enough ruined furniture that he has already told someone to replace most of the family room instead of trying to salvage it.

I sit at the island with a cup of tea cooling between my hands and feel worse with every item he adds.

“We can have the main repairs finished quickly,” he says, glancing down at something on his phone. “The gate will take longer because I’m not replacing it with the same system. I want the entire entrance redesigned.”

I try to smile. “I’m shocked.”

His eyes lift to mine. “You mock me now, but you were very impressed with the safe room.”

“I was awestruck by the safe room. There’s a difference.”

“That sounds like admiration.”

“It was mostly disbelief that you somehow managed to build half a bunker while I was upstairs watching terrible cooking shows.”

The corner of his mouth lifts before he goes back to the list on his phone. Under any other circumstances, this would feel normal. Diego would complain about contractors; I would teasingly argue back. It's just the way it goes with us.

Instead, I keep hearing one sentence from yesterday.

The hematoma is gone.

Dr. Mehta had looked at everything twice before telling us she could no longer see it. The baby is doing well, I am doing well, and after weeks of restrictions there is no medical reason for me to keep living as though walking from one end of a house to the other might be too much.

I should be thrilled.

I am thrilled.

I also feel sick.

Diego is still talking about the house as though returning there is a foregone conclusion, but every practical reason I moved in with him has changed. I do not need someone watching me all day anymore. I do not need Emilia making sure I eat. I can go back to work. I can go back to my apartment.

I can go back to the life I had before I started thinking of his house as mine too.

The thought turns my stomach hard enough that I push the tea away.

Diego notices immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

His expression tells me how badly that answer failed.

“I’m fine,” I add. “I just need a minute.”

I slide off the stool before he can ask anything else and head for the bathroom off the bedroom. I close the door behind me, lean both hands against the vanity, and stare at myself in the mirror.

This is ridiculous.

Nothing bad happened this morning. Nobody told me to leave. Diego has not even brought up the apartment. I am upsetting myself over a conversation we have not had because suddenly I no longer have a medical reason to stay.

I look down at my stomach.

Then I lift my shirt.