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As the beat drops, I sway smoothly through familiar steps—playful hair flips, mini squats pulsing to driving lyrics. But my muscle memory feels a bit off-balance with the slight swell of my belly. My once effortless gyrations and shimmies lack their usual snap as I remain hyperaware of the subtle fullness.
But I build momentum, tossing coy looks over the shoulder that make Aunt Viv whoop in encouragement. As my twirls and shimmies grow bolder, a few passersby slow their steps to watch curiously. I remain focused, nails grazing down posture-perfect arms extended before sharply snapping them overhead. My one hand cradles the bump discreetly as I blow kisses with the other to the charmed spectators.
“Encore, Mademoiselle YouTube! Formidable!” cheers Aunt Viv, still filming. Galvanized by the growing attention, I repeat my sensuous choreography as delighted spectators now echo my gestures behind me. I flash a dazzling grin over my shoulders toward the camera, happy that I’ve still got the spark in me, despite being halfway through my pregnancy.
Maybe a baby will not change much, after all.
My energetic street performance gets cut short by Blondie’s “Call Me” ringtone blaring loudly. Aunt Viv taps my phone screen to halt the recording. A dozen eyes follow her curiously as she checks the caller ID, then passes the phone over.
“Well, here he goes again. Shouldn't you answer?” She arches one perfectly sculpted brow at my frozen expression.
I shake my head vehemently, ignoring the persistent trills. Jack keeps calling me every few days. After a few months of distance, I don’t know exactly what to say. How do I tell him about the baby? Why does he keep calling me? Having to go through awkward check-ins threatens my still fragile resolve to venture on the motherhood rollercoaster by myself.
So, I hit ignore instead, as I have done for the past three months. Plastering on a wide smile that doesn't reach my eyes anymore, I curtsy dramatically toward the impromptu audience.
“Merci et bon après-midi!” Grabbing my coat and Aunt Viv's free arm, I quickly steer us away down the block.
Safely out of sight around a building corner, Viv gently halts my hurried momentum.
“You need to tell him.”
I shift my purse uneasily. “We haven't talked for a couple of months now. Since I came here. It’s easier to ignore his calls.”
Viv turns me softly toward her, her eyes searching mine. “Chérie, he deserves to know.”
My fingers stray to my belly protectively. I think again of Walt and his expectations, and Jack’s words that I’m still a child myself.
“Telling him will just chain him to me by some outdated honor code, and not by love,” I confess quietly. “He'll insist on marrying me.”
“So, what’s wrong with that? You love him, I can tell.”
“I do. But I want him to love me back. Which he doesn’t. That’s what’s wrong with it,” I cry, hot tears streaming down my cheeks. “He likes me well enough,” I continue sobbing on her shoulder while she reassuringly smooths my hair,”but he doesn’t love me.”
“Yes, you care deeply for him, I can see that,” she whispers.
I squeeze my eyes shut, hating the truth. Despite everything, my stupid naive heart tethers me to Jack. But I swallow stubbornly, refusing to settle.
“My baby deserves real devotion, not just his warped sense of obligation.” I lift my chin, defiance steeling me. “I have all I need without him or his family.”
My voice wavers, but I mean it. I deserve to be loved. And I can build my complete family without Jack.
30
BILLIONAIRE’S PLEA
I stride through the sunlit open-concept workspace, marveling at the crackling creative energy. Our new office may not be in a sleek high rise, but Reconstruxion's scrappy crew fills the brick-walled loft space on East 44th Street with optimism and purpose.
Amanda types furiously at a small workstation while nearby, Chad leans over an engineer's screen, gesturing wildly. Programmers feverishly tap code at their standing desks or sprawl on cushy beanbags trading ideas. Across the room, Cade frowns in concentration at his laptop screen, reviewing the latest round of fundraising data that could fuel our rapid expansion. His forehead creases as he jots investment figures on a notepad, strategizing how to leverage the recent clinical trial outcomes. Raising private capital will be crucial for scaling our software distribution quickly. We are gaining strong traction, but our potential impact remains handcuffed without an infusion of funds.
Seeing Cade pouring over investor packets and financial models, determination etched on his face, fills me with conviction. He could have coasted comfortably in a corporate executive role after his military discharge. Instead, he joined me on this quest without hesitation, putting his MBA to work. I squeeze his shoulder in silent gratitude on my way to review the interface updates, earning a distracted thumbs-up in return.
Seeing my rallying cry to revolutionize mental healthcare playing out fills me with endless energy and purpose. Maybe this is what people mean when they talk about a calling—watching a once impossible crusade gain tangible momentum. More veterans will get their lives back because of this ragtag crew. And we are just getting started.
I settle behind my standing desk, reviewing notes for an investor call later today to pitch our clinical outcomes. But first, I pull out my phone, scrolling to Maddie's number, continuing my ritual of attempting to contact her despite the inevitable rejection. At least the six-hour time difference makes midday here a reasonable post-dinner period to try her in Paris.
I hit dial, my pulse racing irrationally, given the guaranteed voicemail outcome. Still, a foolish hope makes me wait through endless rings before her melodic voice instructs me to leave a message. Again. Sighing, I open the location app out of pointless habit, staring at the blinking icon hovering in Le Marais district.
For months after Preston tried to rape her, paranoia consumed me. Now checking compulsively every morning grounds my swirling thoughts. It’s a tangible connection despite the ocean between us.
