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More real.
I shook my head.
It was more likely that it was just the situation that had heightened my senses and made me experience everything more intensely—or the exceptional circumstances that had made everything earthshakingly memorable and seared into my brain.
Made me crave it still.
It seemed like a lifetime since I’d been there, and in some ways, I felt like I’d never left—at least not all of me.
A part of me—a vital one—was missing ever since.
I moved my hand to my belly but stopped mid-air.
My eyes snapped to my father—who was watching me. He was always watching me.
“We can always turn around. Ireland in autumn is really not all that great,” he said.
I cocked my head. “I love you, Dad. And I promise I will check in every day.”
“Yes, you will. Also, you won’t be a second alone anyways.”
My dad shifted his eyes to the two people sitting opposite us.
Edgar Donovan and Siobhan O’Reilly—my bodyguards. Dad had even hired a woman—something unheard of before now—just to make sure I wasn’t alone even for a minute.
I exhaled and looked out the window again. I had to get the timing right to give him my news because if I told him a second too early, he would probably cancel my flight and lock me in my room.
Thinking about it—was my father’s power great enough to shut down the airport?
Not that I was willing to risk it.
I would call him right before take-off to tell him the news.
No chance of stopping me then.
If that made me a coward—so be it.
“Of course, sir,” O’Reilly answered my father, who relaxed next to me.
We arrived at the airport, and security and check-in went by in a hurry—my father probably had someone high enough in his pocket because why else would he be standing next to me and the sizable business jet?
Just like Gabe stood next to me before we boarded the jet in Verona.
“Call whenever you need to, and come home the moment Fiona is well enough,” Dad said, took me in his arms, and kissed my cheek. “Or better yet, bring her with you and come back home immediately.”
For a second, I couldn’t catch my breath. Would he still think this way when he knew I was pregnant?
Would he still welcome me in his home?
My father had always been overprotective—especially after Mom died. And he was a devout Catholic—much more than Cara, Jemma, or I were.
My pregnancy would be a reminder of his loss of control—something he had no tolerance for.
And at the same time, he would know that more happened in Italy than I let on.
Much more.
“I will. Thanks for letting me go.”
