I drop the half-eaten pancake back onto my plate. My appetite still hasn’t found its way back. “Are you going into the office today?” I ask, finally looking up.
Ray’s staring at my plate, his jaw tight like he wants to say something about wasting food, or me not eating enough. Instead, his gaze lifts to mine. “Actually, I thought we’d spend the day together.”
I frown. “Why?”
“We need to go shopping.”
A groan slips out. “That’s the last thing we need.”
He pushes to his feet. “Get dressed. We’re leaving in ten.”
And just like that, he’s gone—before I can argue.
I stare, wide-eyed, as the car pulls up outside Harrods.Of course he’s brought me here.
A man steps forward, opening my door before I even have a chance to reach for it, and my frown deepens.
Ray is already on the pavement, waiting.
I step out slowly, my gaze lifting up the building. “When you said shopping, I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought,” I admit, shaking my head. “But it wasn’t this. What are we doing here, Ray?”
“We need things for the baby,” he says simply.
I blink at him. “And you decided Harrods was the only place for that?”
He nods, already heading for the entrance.
I glance around, then hurry after him. “Wait,” I hiss. “I don’t even know what to get. What we need.”
“Which is why I hired a personal shopper.”
I stop short. “You what?”
But he’s already moving again, a suited man holding the door open as we step inside.
A personal shopper.Who even does that?
My eyes flick around the store, taking everything in. It’s too polished, too perfect—as Ray speaks quietly to a woman behind the desk. A minute later, she approaches with a bright, practised smile.
“Hi, Wynter. I’m Stacie, and I’ll be your personal shopper today.”
“Right,” I mutter, unease settling heavy in my chest.
“If you’d like to follow me, we’ll head over to our nursery section.”
Ray’s already on his phone, his attention gone as quickly as it came, his thumb scrolling through emails.
I trail after her anyway.
The baby section hits me all at once. Soft colours. Tiny clothes. Shelves packed with things I don’t recognise, don’t understand.
And it all feels . . . too much.
“How far along are you?” Stacie asks, that same polished smile still fixed in place.
“Six months,” I reply, resting a hand over my bump.
“Wow, you’re so tiny,” she says. I force a tight smile, something in me bristling at the comment. “Is this your first?” she adds, grabbing a notepad from the counter. I nod. “And what sort of things are you looking for today?”