Chapter 237

Chapter 237
Emily's POV

His hands tightened on my waist. Not rough. Just... possessive. Like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.

I should've pulled back. We were still in the car, for God's sake. Jonathan was up front, probably pretending very hard not to exist right now.

But Stefan's mouth found mine again before I could move. Harder this time. More desperate.

My fingers were still cupped around his face, feeling the tension in his jaw. The kiss wasn't like the ones we'd shared before—this one tasted like fear and need and something almost frantic.

His hand slid to the ribbon tie at my waist. I felt the silk loosen.

"Stefan—" I broke away, breathless. My heart was hammering. "We don't have... I mean, there's nothing here for—"

"It's okay." His voice came out low, almost hoarse. "It doesn't matter."

Oh God.

He thought it didn't matter because he couldn't get me pregnant anyway.

My chest hurt.

I kissed him back instead of saying anything. What could I say? That I'd snooped? That I knew? That it broke my heart to watch him carry this alone?

His mouth moved against mine with an intensity that made my whole body heat up. I felt his fingers work the ribbon completely loose, the dress fabric shifting.

"Wait." I pressed my palms against his shoulders, creating a few inches of space. My face was burning. "Stefan. We're in the car."

He was leaning back against the seat now, looking up at me with those dark eyes that always saw too much. His hands settled on my waist, thumbs stroking slow circles through the thin fabric.

"So?" A hint of that smirk played at his mouth. The one that usually made my stomach flip. "You seemed fine that night. At the floor-to-ceiling windows."

My face went nuclear.

"That was different." I tried to sound firm. Failed completely. "That was home. Private. This is—"

"This is us," he said quietly. "Just us."

But it wasn't the same at all. The car felt too small, too exposed. Even with the tinted windows and Jonathan determinedly not looking back. The leather seat was cool against my legs where the dress had ridden up. Everything felt hyper-real and slightly wrong.

I wanted to say that. Wanted to tell him I needed walls and doors and the familiar safety of our bedroom.

Instead, I just sat there on his lap, hands braced on his shoulders, probably looking like an idiot.

He studied my face for a long moment. Then he leaned forward and kissed me again—softer this time. Almost gentle.

"Hey." His lips moved against mine between words. "It's just me. Doesn't matter where we are."

The sweetness of it made my throat tight.

He's the one who had the terrible night. He's the one carrying around that devastating diagnosis. And here he is, comforting me.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him properly. Tried to pour everything I couldn't say into it—all the reassurance and love and stubborn determination to face whatever came next together.

His hands tightened on my waist again as he deepened the kiss. I felt the car rock slightly when I shifted closer, heard his sharp intake of breath.

Then I caught movement in my peripheral vision.

The streetlights were sliding past the windows. Slowly. So slowly.

Oh my God.

Jonathon was driving at approximately five miles per hour. Giving us... privacy. Or time. Or whatever you'd call this surreal situation.

I should've been mortified. Was mortified. But also weirdly grateful?

Stefan's mouth traced along my jaw to my ear. "Stop thinking so loud," he murmured. "I can hear you from here."

"I'm not—" I started to protest, but he bit down gently on my earlobe and all my thoughts scattered.

Fine. Okay. We could do this.

I tilted my head back as his lips moved down my throat, trying to focus on the sensation instead of the fact that we were absolutely going to traumatize his driver.

The car crawled through the Washington streets while Stefan methodically destroyed my composure. His hands were everywhere—my waist, my back, sliding up into my hair. Each touch deliberate and possessive and so achingly tender it made me want to cry.

I love you, I thought, over and over. I love you and it doesn't matter what the doctors said. We'll figure it out. I promise we'll figure it out.

But I didn't say any of that out loud. Just held onto him and tried not to think about the future we might never have.

The car finally stopped moving. I felt Stefan's arms loosen slightly, heard his breathing slow down. We'd have to go inside soon. Face Jonathan. Pretend this hadn't happened.

But for now, I just stayed there, memorizing the weight of him beneath me, the warmth of his hands on my waist. Storing it all away for whatever came next.

Those three weeks blurred together into an endless parade of events and photo ops and speeches. Stefan threw himself into the final campaign push with manic energy, like he was running from something. I matched his pace, played my role, smiled until my face hurt.

We didn't talk about what happened in the car. Didn't talk about the medical reports or the future or any of it.

Until election night.

I stood in our living room at Oak Manor, staring at the television screen with my hands pressed against my mouth.

"...and with ninety-eight percent of precincts reporting, we can now project that Stefan Ashford has won the Senate race..."

The news anchor's voice seemed to come from very far away. The graphics flashed across the screen—red and blue maps, percentages, that photo of Stefan they'd been using all campaign.

He'd won.

All those exhausting months of events and fundraisers and carefully constructed public appearances—it had actually worked.

I watched the coverage switch to his victory speech. He stood at a podium somewhere downtown, looking unfairly gorgeous in a charcoal suit. The crowd behind him was going wild, but his expression stayed controlled. Calm.

Only I could see the tension in his shoulders. The slight tightness around his eyes.

The cameras loved him anyway. Of course they did.

"History in the making tonight," another commentator gushed. "At thirty-three, Stefan Ashford becomes the youngest person ever elected to represent this state in the Senate..."

My phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again.

Congratulations texts from everyone we knew. I should respond. Should be calling Stefan right now, probably.

Instead, I just stood there, watching him on TV, feeling this weird mix of pride and relief and bone-deep exhaustion.

The campaigning was over. We could go back to normal life now.

Whatever "normal" meant for us anymore.

Two weeks after the election, our new official residence in Washington was complete chaos.

I picked my way through the front hall, dodging workers who were still installing crown molding and an interior designer who kept trying to show me fabric swatches.

"Mrs. Ashford, if you could just look at these options for the drawing room curtains—"

"Later," I promised, not slowing down. "I'll look later."

The appointment book sat on the entry table, already thick with requests. I'd flipped through it this morning over coffee, feeling increasingly overwhelmed.

Monday: Meeting with the Senate Spouses Association. Tuesday: Luncheon with the Democratic Women's Caucus. Wednesday: Tour of the children's hospital with three other political wives.

And that was just my schedule. Stefan's was ten times worse.

I found him in what would eventually be his home office, surrounded by boxes of files. He had his phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, nodding at whatever the person on the other end was saying.

When he saw me in the doorway, his expression shifted. Softened.

He held up one finger—one minute—and I nodded, leaning against the doorframe to wait.

"Right. Thursday at two. Got it." He made a note on the legal pad in front of him. "Yes, tell him I'll review the briefing materials tonight. Okay. Thanks, Jonathon."

He hung up and immediately reached for me.

I went to him without thinking about it anymore. Let him pull me down onto his lap in the desk chair, his arms wrapping around my waist.

"Hey," he said quietly, face pressed against my shoulder.

"Hey yourself." I ran my fingers through his hair. It was getting longer. He needed a haircut. "You okay?"

"Tired." His voice was muffled. "People won't stop calling."

"I know. The appointment book is terrifying."

He made a noncommittal sound against my neck.

We sat like that for a while, not talking. Outside the window, I could see more cars pulling up to the front gate. More visitors, probably. More people wanting face time with the new senator.

"Remember when you promised me normal life after the election?" I said eventually.

Stefan lifted his head to look at me. His eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep.

"I lied," he said flatly.

Despite everything, I laughed. Pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Yeah. I figured."