I Left the Masquerade Pregnant

Chapter 4

Monday morning tastes like hope.

I wake to cold sheets again and this time I don't mind.

He's keeping up the game. Two strangers who just met. Two people starting over.

My muscles ache in the most delicious way, skin still humming with the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he held me like I was something precious and breakable and worth protecting.

Downstairs, Maria sets a plate of fresh fruit and toast on the marble counter.

She's been with us since before the wedding, a sturdy woman in her sixties with silver-streaked hair and hands that have folded a thousand napkins, wiped a thousand tears.

She freezes mid-pour of orange juice, the crystal pitcher suspended in air.

"Mrs. Voss?" Her voice wavers like a violin string pulled too tight. "Are you alright?"

"Better than alright."

I steal a strawberry from the plate, practically dancing to my seat. The fruit bursts sweet and bright against my tongue.

"I'm wonderful, Maria. Absolutely wonderful."

Her weathered face crumples into something painfully tender, eyes glistening.

"I haven't seen you smile like this since... well."

She doesn't finish. She doesn't need to.

Since the miscarriage hangs between us like smoke from a candle just blown out.

"Things are changing." I squeeze her hand. "I can feel it. Something shifted this weekend, Maria. Something important."

"Mr. Voss seemed the same when he left this morning."

She says it carefully, the way you handle a grenade you're not sure is live.

"Quiet is just his way."

I wave off her concern with a confidence I haven't felt in years.

"You know how he is. He processes things internally. But trust me, underneath all that ice, there's still the man I married."

Maria nods, though doubt lingers in the lines around her mouth.

"If you say so, Mrs. Voss. I just want you to be happy."

The drive to Voss Industries takes me past Amara's Patisserie, the little French café tucked between a florist and a law firm.

Our place, back when we had places.

I park on impulse.

The bell chimes overhead as I enter, and the smell hits me like a time machine: butter, sugar, hope.

I order Caspian's favorite without hesitation. Dark chocolate torte with raspberry coulis, pretentious and perfect, just like him.

The woman behind the counter boxes it with a ribbon, and I carry it to my car like a peace offering to a god I've finally figured out how to please.

A thank you. A beginning.

The elevator to the executive floor feels longer than usual, my reflection fractured in the polished brass doors.

I look different.

Softer around the edges, brighter in the eyes. The woman staring back at me almost looks like someone I used to know.

I find him in his corner office, phone pressed to his ear, irritation carved into every line of his face.

Same expression he's worn for two years. Same clenched jaw, same ice-blue eyes.

My stomach dips, but I steady myself.

He's working. He's always working. It doesn't mean anything.

He ends the call without greeting me, setting the phone down with controlled precision.

"What is it, Elara?"

"I brought you something."

I set the box on his desk, the white ribbon stark against dark mahogany.

"From Amara's. Dark chocolate torte, your favorite. I thought after Saturday, we could maybe have lunch together, or at least share a slice. Like we used to."

His brow furrows.

"After what?"

"The party. I wanted to thank you."

He stares at me like I've switched to a language he doesn't speak.

"What party?"

The room tilts.

I search his face for the lie, for the mask beneath the mask, but there's nothing there except genuine confusion.

His brow furrows deeper, eyes narrowing with concern.

It wasn't him.

The thought slices through me like a blade dipped in ice.

It wasn't him. It wasn't him. It wasn't him.

"I… nothing."

I force a laugh that scrapes my throat raw.

"Wrong word. I meant after the weekend. I'm tired, I haven't been sleeping well. You know how I get when I'm exhausted."

Caspian stands slowly, rounding the desk until he's close enough that I can smell his cologne. The same woodsy, expensive scent that used to make me dizzy with want.

"We need to talk, Elara."

"Yes?"

"Sit down." He gestures to the leather chair across from his desk, then seems to reconsider. "Please."

I lower myself into the seat, heart hammering against my ribs.

He leans against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, studying me with an intensity I haven't felt from him in years.

"I've been thinking," he says slowly. "About what you said at that dinner. About feeling like a ghost in your own home."

"You remember that?"

"I remember everything, Elara. I just don't always know what to do with it."

He runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair, mussing it in a way that makes him look younger, softer.

"I've been absent. I know that. I've been so focused on building something that I forgot what I was building it for."

Tears prick at my eyes.

"Caspian, you don't have to—"

"Let me finish." His voice is gentle now. "I shut down after we lost our baby. I didn't know how to grieve with you, so I grieved alone, and somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that if I didn't let myself feel anything, I couldn't be hurt again."

"But you hurt me instead."

"Yes. And I'm sorry. I don't know if we can fix what's broken between us, but I'd like to try. If you're willing."

I stare at him, searching his face for the catch.

But all I see is exhaustion and hope.

"I'm willing."

My voice breaks on the second word.

He closes the distance between us, pulling me to my feet. His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing away a tear I didn't realize had fallen.

"I've missed you," he murmurs.

"I've missed you too."

When he kisses me, it's soft and tentative, nothing like Saturday night's desperate hunger.

"Lock the door," I whisper against his mouth.

His eyes darken. He reaches past me, turning the lock with a click that feels like a promise for more.

We don't make it to the couch. He hoists me onto his desk, papers and pens flying in all directions, and I wrap my legs around his waist.

But his hands hesitate at the buttons of my blouse, fingers fumbling where they used to flow. He's trying. I can feel him trying. Pushing through rust and distance and two years of forgotten choreography.

This is my husband, I tell myself. This is the man I married. This is real.

But my mind keeps slipping sideways.

To a darkened alcove. To moonlight through stained glass. To hands that didn't hesitate, didn't ask permission, just knew.

Caspian pulls back, searching my face. "Is this okay?"

"Yes." The word comes out too fast. "Yes, don't stop."

He doesn't stop. But he watches me the entire time like he's solving an equation he used to know by heart.

I make the right sounds. I move the right way. I arch into his touch and cry out his name against the expensive leather of his chair. And somewhere behind my closed eyes, I see a gold mask catching moonlight.

Different.

Everything about this is different.

Afterward, he presses a kiss to my hair and murmurs something about dinner some time this week, about starting over, about all the things we're going to fix.

Then he unlocks the door and watches me go with softness in his eyes.

I smile until the elevator doors close.

Then my legs give out, and I slump against the brass railing, gasping for air that won't come.

My mind keeps circling back to those two terrible words.

What party?

The confusion in his voice, genuine and unfeigned. The way he looked at me like I'd lost my grip on reality.

If Caspian wasn't at the masquerade on Saturday night...

My hand flies to my stomach, pressing against silk.

Then who was?