One Night, Nine Months, Forever

Chapter 18

Christopher Ashford walked back into my life the same way he'd left it—without warning and with terrible timing.

I was heading toward the front door, mentally preparing for another thrilling day of pregnancy checkups and existential dread, when it swung open and suddenly he was there.

Tanned. Travel-worn. Looking unfairly good for someone who'd just stepped off an international flight, like a cologne advertisement that had gained sentience and learned to make me uncomfortable.

We both froze like deer caught in very expensive headlights.

"Kitty."

"Christopher."

His eyes dropped to my belly, impossible to miss now, straining against my dress like it was trying to escape, and something flickered across his face.

Regret, maybe. Or the dawning realization of exactly how much time had passed while he was hiding on another continent.

The silence stretched painfully. My hands rested on my stomach out of habit, protective and unconscious. Christopher swallowed hard.

"You look..."

"Like I swallowed a watermelon? Yes. Thank you. Very observant." I gestured at my midsection. "It's called pregnancy. Perhaps you've heard of it. You fled the country right around the time mine became visible."

A ghost of a smile crossed his features. "I was going to say well."

"Liar."

The awkwardness was suffocating—thick enough to cut with a knife, serve on a plate, and charge admission for.

We danced around the obvious like two people at a party who'd hooked up and were now pretending they hadn't seen each other naked. Which, technically, we hadn't.

But we'd come close enough that the memory hung between us like a neon sign.

"I have a checkup today," I finally said, desperate to fill the silence with anything other than unspoken tension. "Routine thing. Doctor wants to make sure the watermelon is developing normally."

"Who's taking you?"

"Unclear. Damon's in meetings until the heat death of the universe, and Victoria would rather chew glass than spend time with me." I shrugged. "I was going to call a car."

"I'll take you." The offer came immediately, no hesitation. "If you want."

I shouldn’t want to. Shouldn't agree. I absolutely, categorically, for-the-sake-of-everyone-involved shouldn't want

"Fine. But I'm picking the radio station."

"Wouldn't dream of arguing."

At the hospital, the nurse, a cheerful woman with scrubs covered in cartoon storks, beamed at Christopher like he'd personally delivered her Christmas bonus.

"Dad must be so excited!" She practically sparkled. "First baby?"

What followed was a painfully awkward duet that probably broke several records for synchronized stammering.

"Oh, he's not—"

"I'm actually the—"

"We're not—"

"It's complicated—"

The poor nurse's smile froze in place, her eyes darting between us like she was watching a tennis match played by people who'd never seen a racket. "I'll just... get the doctor."

"Great idea," I said weakly.

"Excellent plan," Christopher agreed.

We didn't make eye contact for the entire ultrasound.

The drive back was quieter, the radio filling silence neither of us seemed ready to break. Christopher's hands gripped the steering wheel at a precise ten and two, knuckles slightly white.

"Does Damon treat you well?" The question came suddenly, like he'd been holding it in his mouth and it escaped against his will. "Does he help? With the pregnancy, with everything?"

I snorted. "He's busy becoming a corporate drone. Your father's pet project now that you've abandoned ship."

I watched the city blur past my window. "Brianna's been my actual support system. She's at the house more than my own husband."

Christopher's grip tightened further. "I'm sorry. I promised to be there for you, and then I just... left."

"You did."

"I had reasons."

"I'm sure they were very compelling reasons." I turned to look at him. "Reasons that had nothing to do with what happened in the kitchen."

He didn't deny it. Didn't defend himself. Just kept his eyes on the road like it required his complete attention.

"There's a diner near here," he said instead. "Our mother used to take us when we were kids. It was this tradition—after doctor's appointments, we'd get milkshakes."

A pause. "I could use some food. If you're hungry."

I should have said no. Should have insisted on going straight home.

"I could eat."

Twenty minutes later, we were sitting on the hood of his car in a parking lot, eating burgers from paper bags like teenagers with nowhere better to be.

The late afternoon sun painted everything gold, and for a moment, the Ashford fortune and all its complications felt very far away.

Christopher talked. Really talked—not the polished, measured words he usually offered, but something raw and real.

He told me about his mother. How she'd smelled like lavender. How she'd sung off-key in the car. How Damon had been different before grief hollowed him out—lighter, funnier, less defended against the world.

"Losing her changed everything," he said quietly. "Damon was seventeen. I was twenty-four and thought I could fix things by being responsible. By being perfect."

He laughed bitterly. "Turns out perfection is just another way of running away."

I let the silence sit, sensing there was more.

"There was a girl," he finally continued. "Stephanie. Damon was in love with her—had been for months. I didn't know."

He stared at his hands. "We met at his graduation party. One thing led to another, and Damon... he saw us. Together."

The pieces clicked into place with devastating clarity.

"I didn't know," Christopher repeated, like saying it enough times might absolve him. "But that doesn't matter. I still did it. I still took something from him he never got back."

"One mistake shouldn't sentence you to a lifetime of sacrificing your own happiness."

He didn't respond.

The baby kicked hard, and I winced, hand flying to my side. "Ow. Okay, little one, I get it. You're in there."

"Is everything okay?"

"Fine. He's been doing this constantly lately. I'm starting to think he's training for the Olympics in there. Baby's first gold medal in maternal organ assault."

Christopher's smile was soft. "The doctor said everything looked fine. Maybe he's just developing a personality."

"God help us all."

A pause settled between us, gentler than before.

"Do you want to feel?" The words left my mouth before I could overthink them.

Christopher hesitated, conflict written across his features. But he couldn't resist. His hand pressed gently against my belly, warm and careful, and we waited.

The baby kicked against his palm.

A genuine smile broke across Christopher's face—unguarded, almost boyish. For a moment, everything else fell away. The complications, the guilt, the impossible tangle of feelings neither of us could name.

Then reality returned, settling over us like a familiar weight.

We were just two people in a parking lot, pretending we didn't feel something we absolutely shouldn't.