One Night, Nine Months, Forever

Chapter 21

I woke from a nap I didn't mean to take to the sound of Eleanor screaming like she was auditioning for a horror movie soundtrack.

The kind of scream that makes you bolt upright wondering if demons have invaded, if the apocalypse has started, if someone has committed the unforgivable sin of existing near a baby who has opinions about it.

I stumbled toward the nursery, still half-asleep, and found a scene that would have been hilarious if my ears weren't bleeding.

Damon stood frozen in the middle of the room, holding our daughter at arm's length like she was a live grenade with a particularly suspicious diaper.

His face was a masterpiece of pure, unadulterated panic—the expression of a man who had faced down hostile boardrooms and corporate takeovers but had met his match in an eight-pound human.

"Why is she doing that?" His voice cracked on the last word. "She was fine and then she just... started. I didn't break her, I swear. I was holding her exactly like you showed me, and then her face got all red, and then—"

"Babies cry, Damon." I moved toward them, trying not to laugh at his obvious terror. "It's literally their only skill. Crying and looking cute. That's the whole repertoire."

"But WHY is she crying?" He looked at Eleanor like she might provide a written explanation if he stared hard enough. "I fed her. I think. The bottle was involved. Liquid went in. Does milk have an expiration—wait."

His eyes went wide. "Do babies expire?"

"Oh my God."

"That's not an answer!"

"No, Damon. Babies do not expire. They are not yogurt."

I took Eleanor from his arms, and she immediately quieted to a whimper against my chest. The betrayal on Damon's face was almost painful.

"How did you do that? She hates me. My own daughter hates me. I'm going to be one of those fathers whose kids only call on holidays, and even then it's just to ask for money."

"She doesn't hate you."

I bit back the sarcastic response sitting on my tongue, because Damon looked so genuinely terrified that mocking him felt like kicking a puppy.

His designer shirt stained with something I chose not to identify, hair wrecked like he'd been running his hands through it for hours, dark circles under his eyes

A really dumb, really handsome puppy who'd never been taught basic commands.

Instead of practicing wit, I did something unexpected.

"Come here." I gestured him closer. "Watch how I'm holding her. See how her head is supported against my arm? She needs to feel secure. Contained. Like she's back in the womb, but with better lighting."

Damon moved closer, watching with the intensity of a man taking notes for a final exam.

"The crying has patterns," I continued, swaying gently the way I'd learned calmed Eleanor down.

"The hungry cry is urgent, rhythmic—like a siren. Da-da-da-da, over and over. The tired cry builds slowly, gets whiny, escalates. The 'I have a dirty diaper and I'm offended about it' cry is more of an indignant wail."

"There are different cries?"

"There's a whole language. You'll learn to translate."

"What about the 'I hate my father' cry?"

"That one's just in your head."

I handed Eleanor back to him, adjusting his arms until they formed the right position. "Support her head. No—that's her neck. Higher. There."

"Like this?"

"Better. Now you need to burp her."

"I need to what?"

Twenty minutes and one truly spectacular spit-up incident later, Damon had settled into the rocking chair with Eleanor asleep against his chest.

One large hand spanned her entire back, keeping her anchored, while the other gripped the armrest like he was afraid sudden movements might wake her.

He was staring down at her with an expression so soft, so unguarded, that my chest physically ached.

"She's so small," he whispered. "How is she so small? She's going to inherit a corporate empire and she can't even hold her own head up."

"Give her time. She'll be running the company by preschool."

"With her mother's personality? She'll stage a hostile takeover of the playground."

I snorted. "She'll definitely have opinions about the sandbox situation."

From the doorway, we looked like a real family. Father and daughter in a rocking chair, mother hovering nearby, soft light filtering through expensive curtains. A portrait of domestic bliss that belonged in a magazine spread.

Like this could actually work.

Like maybe, against all odds and despite everything that had brought us here, we could figure out how to be something real.

Then his phone buzzed.

Damon's expression shuttered instantly—the soft vulnerability disappearing behind that familiar mask so fast I almost got whiplash. He checked the screen, and whatever he saw made his jaw tighten.

"I have to take this." He was already standing, transferring Eleanor to her crib with surprising gentleness despite his obvious hurry. "Work stuff."

"Damon—"

"I'll be back."

He disappeared before I could ask questions, phone already pressed to his ear, voice dropping to a murmur as he vanished down the hallway.

I stood in the nursery, watching Eleanor sleep, that familiar doubt creeping back in like a fog I couldn't quite outrun.

For a moment there, it had felt real. The panic in his eyes when he couldn't soothe her. The way he'd listened, actually listened, when I explained. The tenderness in his expression when he looked at our daughter.

But then his phone buzzed and he was gone. Just like always. Disappearing into work, into meetings, into a world that didn't include me unless I was a convenient prop for public appearances.

Was any of this real?

Or was I just convenient—a contractual obligation with a baby attached, useful for producing heirs and maintaining appearances but ultimately interchangeable?

The doubt sat heavy in my chest as I watched Eleanor's tiny chest rise and fall.

I wanted to believe in the man I'd seen in that rocking chair. The one who looked at his daughter like she was made of miracles. The one who'd asked if babies expired with genuine fear in his voice.

But I'd been fooled before. By this family, by this house, by the promise of something real that always seemed to dissolve the moment I reached for it.

Eleanor stirred, making a small sound that wasn't quite a cry, and I reached down to adjust her blanket.

"Your dad's complicated, little one," I whispered. "But I guess that runs in the family."

She didn't answer, because she was a baby and babies don't provide relationship advice no matter how desperately you need it.

I'd just have to figure this one out on my own.