Five years. That's how long it had been since Adrian Sinclair stood before a chapel full of whispers, a trembling hand holding onto a ring whose owner had abandoned. His world came crumbling down that day, as Victoria Monroe's absence remained stark. She'd vanished without so much as a backward glance, leaving behind grief and pain in his heart.
But on that day, something miraculous happened, he found her.
Adrian didn't believe in second acts. Yet here she was — Emily Carter, his shadow turned compass — her laughter rewriting everything he thought he knew.
What began as a marriage of convenience, a desperate attempt to save face, slowly wove itself into something softer. Stronger. Real. It didn't happen all at once. It crept in through midnight talks, quiet laughter over shared coffee, the way her hand brushed his when she passed him papers, the way his world didn't make sense unless she was in it. Especially after the day he finally apologized. Truly apologized.
And now, sunlight streamed through the gauzy curtains of their bedroom, golden and warm, like the kind of peace Adrian thought only existed in poetry. He stirred beneath the covers, hair tousled, the stubborn crease between his brows softened in sleep.
Emily watched him from the doorway, heart full. In her hands, a tray: toast, eggs, freshly squeezed juice and something else. Something that weighed less than a feather but heavier than her whole world.
She placed the tray gently on the bed, nerves dancing up her spine. He stirred at the smell of cinnamon toast, blinking up at her with that crooked smile she'd grown to crave.
"Good morning," he rasped.
"Morning," she replied, voice light. "Do you fancy breakfast in bed?"
He sat up, eyeing the tray with a smirk. "Trying to butter me up for something?"
Her lips curved. "Maybe."
He reached for a slice of toast, only to pause as his gaze fell on the small white stick resting beside his orange juice. For a second, he just stared.
Then, slowly, he picked it up.
Silence. A pregnancy test.
Emily held her breath. Her hands trembled despite herself. She had rehearsed a dozen ways to say it, a hundred ways to downplay it in case it wasn't true. But the two pink lines didn't lie.
Adrian looked up at her.
"Is this..." his voice cracked, already choked with emotion.
She nodded, her thumb brushing the edge of the tray where steam curled from a forgotten cup of tea. "I took three more. All said the same."
For a moment, nothing moved. The dawn light bled through the blinds, striping the rumpled sheets in gold, the air thick with the sacred silence of a confessional. Adrian's gaze dropped to her stomach, still flat beneath the cotton of her robe. He saw the phantom flutter of small hands, heard the echo of a laugh not yet born — a future so dazzling.
Then he was out of bed, bare feet slapping cold hardwood, arms wrapping around her so tightly the tray tilted. Tea sloshed over the rim, pooling on the nightstand as Emily gasped, half-laughing, half-crying. "Adrian — the china!"
He didn't care. The cup could shatter, the room could collapse; the universe had already upended. "We're going to have a baby," he whispered into her hair, voice cracked open. The words felt foreign, miraculous, like reciting a psalm in a language he'd forgotten he knew.
Her laughter made his heart flutter, fragile and beautiful, her fingers knotting in his shirt. "Yes."
He kissed her then — not with the hurried hunger of their retreat nights, nor the practiced sweetness of their public charades. This was a slow unraveling, a sacrament. His lips traced the salt on her cheeks, the curve of her smile, the pulse at her temple, as if mapping the contours of a miracle. His miracle. The woman who'd stormed into his life with spreadsheets and stubbornness, who'd dismantled his walls brick by brick, now cradled a secret that would rewrite them both.
When he finally pulled back, her face was blurred through his tears. "Emily," he rasped, forehead pressed to hers. "You've truly given me everything."
Today was a momentous occasion. He canceled meetings, ignored his buzzing phone, and watched her, really watched her, as she moved through their penthouse, sunlight haloing her like some modern Madonna. She hummed as she watered the flowers he'd bought her last Christmas, her free hand drifting absently to her belly. Adrian followed the gesture, transfixed, until she caught him staring.
"What?" She grinned, cheeks flushing.
"Nothing." He crossed the room, stealing the watering can to set it aside. "Just committing this to memory." His palm settled where her hand had been, warmth bleeding through silk. "Our first morning as three."
They called Daniel first. He whooped so loudly Emily had to pull the phone away from her ear. Then came Adrian's mother, whose tears turned into plans within seconds. Nathaniel, Emily's older brother, tried to keep his cool but ended up hugging Adrian tightly, even offering to start building a crib. He was a former soldier turned private investigator but for his sister? He could manufacture any skill. They also couldn't forget Sophia, a new colleague who quickly grew to become Emily's best friend.
By late afternoon, their house was alive with warmth. Friends filled the garden, champagne flowed, music played, and laughter danced through the halls. Adrian held Emily close, the world distilled down to the thrum of her heartbeat and the tiny miracle growing inside her.
All the old ghosts seemed forgotten. The trauma of the altar, the bitterness of false starts — all of it faded in the wake of what they had built. What they were still building.
As evening approached, and all but the closest guests were beginning to take their leave, Adrian was with everyone opening another bottle of wine, humming under his breath. He poured two glasses, planning to hand one to Nathaniel, who was regaling a group with one of Emily's childhood stories.
That's when the butler approached. A young man, recently hired, with nervous eyes and a soft voice.
"Sir?"
Adrian turned, glass in hand. "Yes, Michael?"
Michael looked hesitant, glancing toward the entryway as if afraid the message itself might combust. "There's someone at the door asking for you."
Adrian blinked. "Another guest? I thought we invited everyone."
Michael swallowed. "No, sir. She wasn't invited."
That gave Adrian pause. "Then who is it?"
Michael shifted, clearly uncomfortable.
"She says her name is Victoria Monroe."