Chapter 171: 171

I turn in my seat to face Wren in person.

“Yes, I did. Because that night in the hospital, for the first time in my adult life, I was fucking terrified. I didn’t know what was going on and I was convinced that I was going to lose you.” Wren’s face is frozen, not certain yet which way to crack. I keep going. “That fear made everything clear to me. I realized that what I felt for you went so far beyond love. I realized that you were the most important person in the world to me, and I couldn’t bear the thought of living my life without you. And I figured, if by some cruel twist of fate, life took you from me or me from you, I wanted you to be my wife first.”

What I would give to reach out and touch her now. It feels like forever since I last held her in my arms. If space weren’t what she needed, it would be intolerable.

“As I said before, Wren, I’ll give you the time you’re asking for. As much of it as you need. But I also need you to understand that I’m not giving up on us. Not now. Not ever. We are a family. You and Mischa, you’re the only things in the world that matter to me.”

“What about your Bratva?”

“I would give up my Bratva in an instant if that’s what it takes for you to forgive me.”

I hold her eyes. She holds mine. More cars honk in fury, but I still couldn’t care less. This break in time is for my wife and me.

This is healing.

This is hoping.

This is forgiving.

At least, that’s what I want it to be.

In the end, she blinks first, breaking our hypnotic eye contact. “We should go inside,” she says quietly, reaching for the baby bag.

“Leave it. I’ll get it.”

She nods, allowing herself to give me a small smile that flutters at the corners of her mouth like a ghost and disappears too soon. “Okay. Thank you.”

It’s not progress. Not exactly.

But it’s something.

44

WREN

The rattle falls out of my new friend Jessica’s hand and clatters to the floor, rolling to a stop a few inches shy of Mischa’s head.

“Shit!” Jessica exclaims, rushing to retrieve it. “I’m so sorry, Wren.”

I pick it up and hand it back to her. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m so damn out of it today.” She brushes her hair out of her face and passes the toy back to her little boy. “I barely got any sleep last night. Michael was supposed to take the night feed and he completely slept through it.”

Lana and Faith make commiserating tsk sounds with their tongues. “At least Michael offers to take a night shift or two every once in a while,” Lana says with a grimace. “Jordan claims that as the main breadwinner, he can’t afford to miss even one night of sleep.”

“Sounds like Adam.” Faith nods miserably. “Except he forgets that the only reason I can’t work right now is because I literally shoved his child out of my vagina.”

“How quickly they forget.”

All three women turn to me at the same time, with matching expressions that demand I share a “useless husband” story of my own.

“Uh, for sure,” I mumble weakly. I’m painfully aware that I most definitely do not have the same kind of problem that these women do. But how do I chime in with the truth? What can I say?

My husband takes every single late night feed so that I have an uninterrupted stretch of sleep?

My husband changes every diaper he’s around for uncomplainingly? He sings while he does it? He stocks the pantry with my favorite snacks and rubs my feet before bed?

They’ll hate me. Hell, I’d hate me. And for some inexplicable reason, I do want to fit in with these mothers.

I love Bee, of course, but there are just some things she can’t relate to. Like bleeding nipples and month-long periods. She listens—it’s just that she’s always got this pinched expression when I talk about childbirth stuff that suggests she’d rather be listening to anything else.

But Jessica, Lana, and Faith? None of them wrinkle their noses when I complain about stomach cramps and blood clots. None of them look disgusted or horrified. They nod sympathetically and tell me all the little home remedies that have worked for them. We may not be lifelong friends, but if we can support each other through this part of life, that’ll be enough for me.

It’s just another reason I have to be grateful to my husband. Bee told me that this Mommy & Me class was his idea.

I’d been over the moon—just not over the moon enough to, y’know, actually go to him and thank him. So instead, I’d taken a leaf from his book and wrote a little note that I had Bee stick up on his room door.

Thank you—Wren.

I’ll be expecting my Pulitzer in the mail any day now, thank you very much.

I wanted to write more, but I also didn’t want him to think that my note meant I forgave him. The next day, I received a reply.

You’re welcome—Your husband.

I laughed, against my better instinct. Then I took the note and deposited it into the Prada shoebox where I kept all the rest of his patient scribbles.

Yes, I kept them all. Yes, I wish I could bring myself to burn them instead. Yes, I’m aware my resolve is right next to useless.

I tried to resist; I really did. I thought about throwing them out with a vengeance that first day I walked into the kitchen to find the cabinets covered with his blocky, all-caps handwriting.

But then I read one and started tearing up.

And then another.

And then another.

By the time I finished reading all the notes, the papers were soaked with pathetic tears and I was ninety-eight percent of the way ready to sprint up to the top penthouse and beg him to move back in with me.

But I stopped myself just in time. If I forgave him too fast, he’d just think he could get away with pulling this crap again next time we reached an impasse.

And this is a battle I can’t afford to lose. I want a future with Dmitri Egorov so, so badly—but it can’t be a future where I’m his doormat. I want in… no matter what that might mean.

So this is how it has to be. Notes hidden, if not burned. Smiles felt, if not shown. It’s as much a punishment for me as it is for him.

But the notes help.