Chapter 238

Chapter 238
Emily's POV

I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the clasp on my pearl necklace for the third time. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

"You look beautiful."

Stefan's voice came from the doorway. I turned to find him leaning against the frame, black suit perfectly tailored, that familiar intensity in his dark eyes softened just slightly when they landed on me.

"You've been saying that a lot lately," I said, trying for light.

"Because it's true." He crossed the room in three strides, hands settling on my waist. "Ready?"

Not really. Tonight's celebration was for him—Senator Stefan Ashford, youngest ever elected from our state—and the guest list read like a who's who of Washington power players. Everyone who mattered would be there.

"As I'll ever be," I managed.

His thumb traced a small circle against my hip bone through the silk. "Hey. You've done this before. You're good at this."

I wasn't sure that was true, but I nodded anyway. These past few weeks had been brutal. Stefan worked eighteen-hour days, bouncing between constituent meetings and briefings and late-night strategy sessions. When he came home, he looked hollowed out. Exhausted in a way that made my chest tight.

Tonight was supposed to be different. A celebration. Time to actually breathe.

"Come on," he said, offering his arm. "Let's get this over with."

The hotel ballroom was a sea of crystal chandeliers and designer gowns. I felt Stefan's hand tighten on my back as we entered, his public smile sliding into place—that easy, charming expression that never quite reached his eyes anymore.

"Senator Ashford!" A silver-haired man in an expensive suit appeared at Stefan's elbow. "Congratulations on your victory. Truly historic."

Stefan shook his hand, said something gracious. I stood beside him, smiling on autopilot while my mind catalogued details. The congressman from Pennsylvania. The aide taking notes in the corner. The server weaving through the crowd with champagne flutes.

This was my life now. Political spouse. Human shield against social vampires. Stefan's safe harbor in a room full of sharks.

"Emily?"

The familiar voice cut through my autopilot haze. I turned to find Lydia pushing through the crowd, James trailing behind her with—

Oh.

My breath caught.

Lydia held a baby. Not a newborn, maybe eight or nine months old, all chubby cheeks and white lace dress. The little girl had Lydia's coloring, James's bone structure. She was gorgeous.

"Lydia!" I broke away from Stefan's side, pulling my friend into a careful hug around the baby. "Oh my God, when did you—"

"Surprise!" Lydia's grin could've powered the city grid. "This is Lily. We call her Bubbles because she, well—" Right on cue, the baby blew a spit bubble, and we both laughed.

I'd known they were expecting, of course. But Lydia had been in London for the birth, and with everything happening—Stefan's campaign, my recovery, the endless chaos—we'd barely talked beyond quick texts.

"She's beautiful," I breathed. And she was. Perfect tiny human, all wide blue eyes and grabby hands reaching for Lydia's pearl earring.

"Here, trade me." Lydia shifted Bubbles to her other hip, fishing her phone from her clutch. "I need photos. James, get in there."

James appeared at my elbow, looking simultaneously exhausted and blissfully happy in that way new parents do. "Emily. Good to see you."

"You too." I squeezed his arm. "Congratulations. She's perfect."

"We think so." His voice went soft, eyes on his daughter. "Most of the time. The 3 AM screaming fits are less perfect."

I felt rather than saw Stefan move closer. His presence at my back, solid and warm. When I glanced over my shoulder, he was staring at Bubbles with this look I couldn't quite decode.

Not quite longing. Not quite fear. Something caught in between.

My stomach twisted.

"Stefan," James said, apparently oblivious to the tension. "Meet our daughter. Future Broadway star, if Lydia has anything to say about it."

"Football player," Lydia corrected, not looking up from her phone. "We've discussed this."

Their easy bickering should've been funny. Instead, I watched Stefan's throat work, his jaw tight.

"She's lovely," he said finally. Voice perfectly even. Politician smooth.

But I knew him now. Could read the micro-expressions, the tiny tells. The way his hand flexed at his side. The slight catch in his breathing.

He looked like something inside him was breaking.

"Want to hold her?" James offered, already shifting Bubbles in his arms. "You're a senator now. Might as well practice the baby-kissing part of the job."

No no no—

"Sure," Stefan said.

My heart stopped.

James transferred Bubbles into Stefan's arms with practiced ease, adjusting his grip, making sure the baby's head was supported. Stefan stood there, tall and powerful and absolutely terrified, staring down at this tiny person like she might detonate.

"Just relax," James said. "Babies can smell fear."

"That's dogs," Lydia murmured, still taking pictures.

Stefan's shoulders were rigid. His hands—God, his hands were shaking just slightly, holding Bubbles like she was made of spun glass. He'd faced down corporate raiders and political opponents without flinching, but one eight-month-old had him completely undone.

"Hi," he said softly. Awkwardly. "Hi, Bubbles."

The baby stared up at him with wide, solemn eyes. Then her face crumpled.

Oh shit.

Bubbles started to squirm. Small whimpers escalating toward a full cry. Stefan's eyes went wide, panicked. His grip loosened instinctively—

I moved without thinking.

My hands shot out, catching Bubbles as she started to slide. Muscle memory from years of babysitting my cousins kicked in. I settled the baby against my hip, making soft shushing sounds, bouncing slightly.

Bubbles quieted immediately, blinking up at me with those big blue eyes.

"Well," Lydia drawled, grinning at me over her phone. "Someone's a natural."

My face burned. I could feel Stefan's stare like a physical weight, but I didn't look at him. Couldn't. Just focused on the warm weight of the baby in my arms, the soft baby-powder smell, the tiny hand fisting in my dress.

"Here." I passed Bubbles back to Lydia, throat tight. "Before she realizes I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Please. You were great." Lydia shifted Bubbles to her shoulder, patting her back. "We should get together soon. Properly. Not just stolen moments at political events."

"I'd like that," I said. Meant it.

We made vague plans. Exchanged promises to text. Then Lydia and James melted back into the crowd, taking their perfect little family with them.

I stood there, suddenly cold despite the press of bodies and champagne-warm air.

"Emily—"

"I should check on the caterers," I cut Stefan off. Couldn't do this here. Not in front of three hundred witnesses. "Make sure everything's running smoothly."

I walked away before he could respond. Wove through the crowd, accepting congratulations and making small talk on autopilot while my mind replayed the last ten minutes on loop.

Stefan holding Bubbles. That look on his face. The careful, desperate way he'd cradled her.

He wanted this. Wanted to be a father. Wanted tiny hands and sleepless nights and the whole beautiful, messy thing.

And he thought he couldn't have it.

The medical report flashed through my mind. The one I'd accidentally seen with his name on it. Severely compromised sperm motility. Abnormal morphology. Natural conception probability: nearly zero.

I'd asked Dr. Harrison about it. Multiple times, actually. Pushed for updates, treatment options, anything that might help. The doctor always gave me the same careful answer: there was some improvement with treatment, but progress was slow. Minimal. They'd need to maintain the regimen long-term, monitor closely.

He never used the word hopeless. But I heard it anyway, in the spaces between his professional caution.

My throat burned. I grabbed a champagne flute from a passing server, took a long swallow I didn't taste.

This wasn't fair. Stefan had been through enough. Childhood trauma, his father's manipulation, years of fighting just to build something of his own. He didn't deserve this too. Didn't deserve to have his body fail him in yet another way.

And the worst part? He was carrying it alone. Trying to protect me from his pain, same way he always did. Taking care of me when he was the one breaking.

I wished—God, I wished it was me instead. Wished my body was the broken one, not his. I'd already made peace with dying young once. Already learned to live with limitations and medications and the constant awareness of borrowed time.