Thank God for the coat. The cut is loose enough to disguise what it needs to. On me, most people won’t look twice unless they already suspect something. They’ll see a plus-size woman in a well-draped wrap coat and stop there. They won’t study the shape underneath. They won’t ask questions.
At least Ethan didn’t.
The thought loosens something in me. Barely.
The baby moves, slow and heavy, and I press my palm there for a second, grounding myself.
He cannot know. Not now.
I open my eyes and stare out at the estate, at the glowing windows and the blur of motion inside. Somewhere in that house is the rest of the Sokolov family. Somewhere in that house is the rest of this disaster waiting to happen.
I straighten, adjust my grip on the binder, and force my breathing back under control.
Whatever this weekend becomes, I am not falling apart on the front steps.
Of course the room is in the staff wing.
Not a real staff wing, not downstairs beside industrial laundry machines or tucked behind swinging kitchen doors, but the polished, expensive version of one. A corridor on the far end of the estate with smaller bedrooms, simpler furnishings, and none of the breathtaking views reserved for family and honored guests.
Still, it’s a room. Which is more than I was expecting when Nadine leads me upstairs and says, almost apologetically, “You’ll be staying on the property tonight. Mrs. Sokolov prefers key vendors remain available through the evening in case adjustments need to be made.”
I stop in the doorway, overnight bag hanging from my shoulder. “Tonight?”
Nadine nods. “And tomorrow night as well, if needed.”
I stare at her for a beat.
I’d assumed I’d drive back into town after the rehearsal dinner. Collapse in my own bed. Wake up groggy and sore and return in the morning. Not ideal, but manageable.
Apparently not.
I smile because there’s nothing else to do. “Of course.”
The room itself is neat and tasteful in the way everything here is. Cream walls. Dark wood furniture. Crisp white bedding. A vase of garden roses on the dresser that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget. There’s even a private bath, marble-tiled and immaculate, with folded towels stacked like art.
I shut the door, set my bag down on the chair by the window, and let myself stand there for one long breath in the sudden quiet.
Then I move.
I change into the backup dress I packed, a dark wrap dress soft enough to breathe in and structured enough to look intentional. I touch up my makeup. Re-pin my hair. Sit on the edge of the bed and take my prenatal vitamins and the anti-nausea pill my doctor told me not to skip when stress makes everything worse.
For a second, with the pill bottle cool in my hand, I think about the absurdity of it.
Rehearsal dinner downstairs. Baby kicking under my ribs. Ex-boyfriend in the house. And somewhere in the back of my mind, the old phantom of a man I haven’t let myself think about too closely in months.
I swallow the thought with the water and stand.
No room for ghosts tonight.
By the time I head downstairs, I’ve put myself back together enough to pass for calm.
The dining room is glowing when I step into it. Someone has lowered the lights just enough to make the candlelit tables shimmer. Long arrangements of ivory roses, pale ranunculus, trailing greenery, and white taper candles run down the center of the room in deliberate, expensive abundance. Crystal catches the light overhead. Place cards sit in perfect rows. Gold-edged china gleams against linen so smooth it almost looks unreal.
Outside the tall windows, dusk settles over the grounds in a wet blue haze. Inside, everything is warmth and polish and money.
It’s beautiful.
I hate that it’s beautiful.