There’ve been blackmail attempts, too. Assholes who tell us that all we have to do to keep things like racy photos out of the public eye is pay. Damien hasn’t—not yet—choosing instead to use his resources to fight back. So far, he’s been able to thwart the threats. But one day, he might not be able to.
One day, it might be our child at the center of a blackmail scheme. Our child that the paparazzi constantly follows. Our child who will be constantly watched. Constantly judged. Reviled for coming from money. Accused of being spoiled and out of touch.
And as for Damien and me . . .
Well, our every decision will be scrutinized, all our choices hashed out publicly. And God forbid our child ever does anything foolish, because the tabloids will eat her alive.
I draw a breath, then sigh as I wipe my eyes once again.
The press had shined the spotlight on Damien even before he won the Junior Grand Prix at fifteen. He was too young, too talented, and too good-looking. Perhaps they would have looked away once he retired, but then there was scandal. And after that, money and the empire he built. Every step in Damien’s life has drawn scrutiny, and I can’t imagine that will stop any time soon.
Damien’s wealth is a blessing in so many ways. A concrete manifestation of his incredible talent and intellect. And it’s so damned unfair that what should feel like a boon—the ability to provide for a child in every way possible—feels so much like a curse.
My phone pings, signaling an incoming text. I scramble in my leather satchel to grab it, hoping it’s Damien, but I can see immediately from the message on the lock screen that it’s not—What makes you think you can handle it?
I stare at the cold, hard words and my insides twist as bile rises in my throat. I hesitate. My instinct is to just throw the damn thing back into my bag. But I don’t. I open the app so I can see who sent it. But the number is blocked, and all I have is the horrible text.
I have no idea who sent it. I’ve never been particularly precious with my cell number. Mostly, I only give it to friends, but I also frequently use it for after-hours business or pass it along to important contacts.
In other words, it could be anyone. Maybe it’s some bitch who resents me for having married Damien. For being pregnant with his child. Or maybe it’s one of the potential contractors for the Greystone-Branch job, pissed off after hearing the rumors that I’m one of the final candidates.
Maybe it’s Sofia, and she’s not as healthy as everyone seems to think.
I don’t know, and I don’t care.
Except that’s a lie. I do care. I care too damn much. And as I fight back tears, the words of the text rattle around in my head, banging up against my own dark thoughts. You, a mom? You, juggle work and a family? What makes you think you can handle it, Nikki? What makes you think you’re even remotely prepared for this? For any of this?
“Mrs. Stark?”
I jump, so startled by the driver’s words that I actually yelp. “What? What is it?”
He’s turned around in his seat, facing me, and though he’s working hard to keep a professional demeanor, he can’t hide the concern on his face. He doesn’t comment on my distress, however, and I’m grateful for that kindness. “We’ve arrived,” he says as he gestures to the cemetery outside the car. “If you need me for anything at all, I’ll be waiting right here.”
I smile in thanks, understanding the depth of his unspoken offer. Then I draw in a breath, grab my satchel, and step out of the car and into the Dallas heat.
The cemetery covers several acres, but I know where I’m going, and I hurry along the stone path through the manicured lawn with an almost desperate determination. I don’t know why I’m so compelled to be here; all I know is that right now I need to be near my sister.
I don’t realize I’m crying until I finally reach her grave and discover that I can’t read her headstone because my tears have blurred my vision. I brutally wipe them away, then collapse onto the damp grass right in front of her tombstone. Ashley Anne Fairchild, Beloved Daughter.
I trace my fingertip over the words, a familiar frustration rising in me. I’d wanted the stone to say Beloved Sister, too, but my mother had flatly refused, saying it wasn’t appropriate. So that even now, after her death, my mother has come between my sister and me.
“I miss you, Ash,” I say, as hot tears cut tracks down my cheeks. “I miss you so damn much.”
I lean back, trying to control my breathing. “I’m pregnant,” I tell her. “Damien and I are going to have a baby. And you should be here, Ash. You should be with me when she’s born. You should be here to help me decorate the nursery and pick out maternity clothes for me, and tiny little baby outfits for her.” I choke on a sob. “You should be here,” I say again, my throat thick with tears.
I turn away from the stone to wipe my tears, as if I don’t want her to witness the depth of my misery. And as I do, I see Damien walking between the graves toward me, his stride long and full of purpose. I say nothing. Just sit there, amazed and relieved, until he’s just inches away, kneeling on the grass in front of me. I know the driver must have contacted him, but even knowing that, his presence here feels like a miracle.
“You’re here,” I say.
“Where else would I be?” He brushes my tears away with his thumb. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I lean against him so that his chest supports me. His arms around me give me strength, and my eyes on my sister’s grave give me purpose. And then, with a sigh, I tell him about what happened at the interview. “It was great,” I conclude. “Or it was great until they started asking me about the baby.”
“Sweetheart, I’m sorry.” He kisses the top of my head, and I shift in his arms and lean back, wanting to see his face as I try to explain all the thoughts and emotions that are crashing around inside of me.
“The thing is, when I left their office, I felt all twisted up. Like I was exactly where Mother wanted me to be.” I think about the text message and its suggestion that I’m not capable of handling anything now that I’m pregnant. I haven’t told Damien about it yet, partly because I don’t want him to worry, but mostly because I simply want to flush it from my mind. But the message is like something my mother would say.
“Barefoot and pregnant,” I murmur. “That’s all she wanted for me. All she wanted for Ashley, too. No career. Just a husband to pamper, two kids, and a dog. So long as everything is picture-perfect on the outside, to her, the inside doesn’t much matter. All Mother cared about was the shine.”
“I’m starting to sound like a broken record, but you’re not your mother.”
“No,” I agree fiercely. “I’m damn sure not. And more than that, I really don’t care what she thinks.”