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Burn's eyes lock onto mine, the dim light from the antique chandelier casting haunting shadows across his chiseled face. It takes a long time before he answers.
"I've got an idea," he says, his voice low and urgent. "You could lie to Talia. Tell her you've been disinherited. That you'll be poor and have nothing. Gauge her reaction. Then you'll know whether she is staying with you for the money or for love."
As soon as Burn says it, I know that it needs to happen. Before I give myself to Talia completely, I just have to know how much of her love I bought and how much I actually inspired. My heart pounds in my chest as Burn's suggestion echoes through my mind.
It's a gamble, but it might just work. The truth is slippery and evasive, and the thought of living with this uncertainty is suddenly unbearable.
"You're right," I say quickly, my emotions running high. "It's the only way to know."
"Not the only way," Burn starts to point out.
But I'm not listening to a word he says.
The truth must be revealed; the veil of deception lifted. It's a dangerous game we're playing, one that could either cement our love or shatter it beyond repair. I know that I owe it not only to myself but to Talia as well.
"Tell her," I whisper to myself, steeling my resolve. "Tell her and let the chips fall where they may."
ChapterTwenty-Two
TALIA
The automatic doors slide open and a wave of vanilla scent washes over me. My heart stutters at the sight of plush cream carpeting, soft pink walls and sleek chrome accents.I clutch at Olive's arm.
Suddenly, the thought of giving birth is real. And this place is shoving it in my face. I pale and gulp.
Luckily, a familiar face awaits. Dr. Nathan, the nicest obstetrician in the world, stands in the foyer to greet me.
"Welcome to Adams-Rosenbaum Birthing Center, Mrs. Morgan," Dr. Nathan says, shaking my hand with a practiced grip.
Beside her stands a short woman in bright pink scrubs, her name tag readingMercy, Physician's Assistant. She gives me a smile, warm brown eyes crinkling at the edges.
"Congratulations on your pregnancy, Mrs. Morgan. We're so happy you'll be delivering here with us."
Mercy's enthusiasm seems genuine, but I wonder if it's only because Dare's name opens doors in Montpelier like a golden key. My fingers tighten around Olive's as another wave of nerves rolls through me.
"Adams-Rosenbaum is the premier birthing center on the East Coast," Mercy continues. "Our facility is state-of-the-art, and we provide only the highest quality care. You'll have a spacious birthing suite, the finest midwives and doctors, and any service you require."
"Thank you," I say. "I appreciate all the time and care you're putting into this."
It's the truth. As uneasy as their lavish accommodations make me feel, I want only the best for my baby. If Dare's wealth and status can provide that, I'll make use of them.
I lay a hand over my swollen belly, feeling the baby roll under my palm.You deserve the world, little one. I'll make sure you have every advantage.
"Why don't we show you to your suite now?" Dr. Nathan suggests. "We designed it to be a fully self-contained home away from home during your stay here. Please let me know if there's anything else we can do for you."
"Thank you," I say again, squeezing Olive's hand. "I'm sure it will be perfect."
My heart flutters with joy and nerves as we walk down the corridor. Everything here is so pristine, so perfect. Rather like a fairy tale.
But a niggling worry worms its way through my anticipation. Fairy tales often hide thorns beneath their gilded petals. I can only hope this glamor doesn't come with a price.
Mercy swings open a set of ornate wooden doors and ushers us inside. I gasp. The suite is the size of Aunt Minnie's small house, decorated in shades of blush and ivory with gauzy drapes and plush carpeting. A four-poster canopy bed dominates the center of the room, piled high with silk pillows.
"The nursery is through here," Mercy says, leading us through another door. My heart melts at the sight of the pastel jungle animals painted on the walls, the crystal chandelier, the stuffed toys arranged just so on a miniature sofa.
"It's too much," I whisper to Olive. "Simply too much."
"Nonsense," she says, giving my arm a squeeze. "Every new mother deserves to be pampered, and you most of all. Now come on, let's see the rest!"
