Page 181 of His Surrender

“I can’t stay here and pretend everything is fine if he decides he doesn’t want this.”

I carry Liana to her nursery after she finishes eating and lower her carefully into the crib. She stirs, her mouth opening in a small protest, so I rest my hand against her stomach until she settles.

I stand over her long after she is asleep.

The nursery has changed so much since I first arrived.

When Dean interviewed me, the room looked professionally designed but untouched. Now there are signs of a real baby everywhere.

A stack of clean clothes waits to be folded on the chair. A stuffed elephant lies face down near the crib.

One of Dean’s parenting books sits open on the dresser, a page folded over despite his insistence that bending corners ruins books.

There are traces of all three of us in this room. I chose the mobile above the crib. Dean assembled the bookshelf.

We spent an hour arguing about whether the rocking chair should face the window or the door.

It feels like ours. That is the danger. Nothing here belongs to me.

He can close that door whenever he wants.

The thought makes me feel ashamed.

Dean has never treated me as though I am disposable. Even Saturday night, when he was terrified, he worried about what his fear might do to me.

But fear doesn’t have to be cruel to destroy something. Sometimes, it simply convinces people to walk away before they can be left.

I return to my bedroom and open my laptop.

The job application page still sits open from the last time I used it. Several saved positions appear along the side of the screen, all in different cities.

Now every listing looks like an escape route.

I open the email from the Chicago firm and begin typing.

Thank you for reaching out. I would be happy to speak with you on Wednesday afternoon.

My fingers hover above the keyboard.

Accepting an interview doesn’t mean I’m accepting the job. It means I’m protecting myself.

I stare at the message until the words blur, and then I press Send. The confirmation appears immediately. My stomach twists so sharply that I close the laptop.

I don’t know what will come of this, but I know that I have to move forward … with or without Dean.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

DEAN

The drive back to the penthouse feels strangely quiet.

For the first time in two days, my mind isn’t racing from one terrifying possibility to the next. Instead, my father’s words play on a loop as Manhattan slides past my window.

I would still choose every morning I woke up beside her.

He would still choose my mother, even knowing that would end, that grief would come. He would choose every ordinary Tuesday, argument over curtains, Christmas morning, and every laugh.

It doesn’t mean losing her wasn’t devastating but loving her had been worth it.