Adison’s POV
Evening light bleeds gold through the bedroom windows, and I stand before the mirror studying what four months of carrying Jake's child has done to my body.
The curve is undeniable now. No amount of strategic clothing can hide it anymore. My hand traces the swell beneath thin pajama fabric, and something fierce blooms in my chest—protectiveness mixed with wonder mixed with terror that this is actually happening.
"You've never looked more beautiful." Jake's voice carries from the bed, rough with something I recognize as reverence. "Than you do right now, carrying our child."
I turn to find him propped against the headboard, watching me with an expression that makes my throat tight. "I look exhausted."
"You look like everything I've ever wanted." He extends one hand toward me, palm up. An invitation. "Come here."
I cross the room and climb into bed, fitting myself against his body with practiced ease. His hand finds my belly immediately—reverent, possessive, achingly gentle.
"The exhaustion might actually kill me." The admission scrapes out honest and raw. "I'm not being dramatic. I genuinely think I might die from lack of sleep."
"I warned you." His voice carries no judgment, just a reminder wrapped in concern. "Back at the ranch. I told you Manhattan would drain you."
"You did." I press my face against his shoulder, breathing him in. "You were annoyingly right about that."
"Will you let me help?" His hand spreads across my belly, and I feel the baby flutter beneath his palm. "Actually help, instead of watching you run yourself into the ground?"
The question settles between us like a challenge I'm not ready to accept. Because letting him help means admitting I can't do this alone. Means surrendering control I've spent years cultivating.
"Maybe." The word comes out smaller than I intend. "I'm working on it."
His laugh rumbles through his chest. "That's progress, I suppose."
Silence stretches comfortable and warm. His thumb traces circles against my skin, and I catalog the steady rhythm of his breathing, the solid weight of him beside me.
But something gnaws at the edges of my temporary peace.
"It's been weeks since the press conference." I voice the worry that's been building like pressure before a storm. "Walter's gone completely silent. No legal threats. No public attacks. Nothing."
"And that bothers you." Not a question. Just acknowledgement.
"The quiet feels ominous." I tilt my head back to see his face. "Like he's planning something we can't anticipate."
Jake's expression hardens slightly. "Or maybe we actually won. Maybe the press conference went well enough that he doesn't have ammunition anymore."
"You don't believe that." I hold his gaze. "Neither do I."
"No." He sighs, pulling me closer. "But tonight, I'm choosing not to worry about Walter. Tonight is about something more important."
"What's that?"
"Tomorrow." His voice softens into something that sounds like joy. "Tomorrow is your birthday. And I intend to spend every single moment making sure you feel celebrated."
The statement lands somewhere tender. I've spent years treating my birthday like an obligation—society dinners and strategic appearances, performances for people who measured my worth in social currency.
"Every moment?" I manage, already feeling tears threaten.
"You, me, and this little one." His hand presses more firmly against my belly. "That's all that matters tomorrow."
I don't trust myself to respond. So I just curl tighter against him and let exhaustion finally pull me under, his heartbeat steadying my own racing thoughts into something resembling peace.
* * *
Morning arrives to an empty bed and the sound of voices drifting from somewhere beyond the bedroom.
I force myself upright, blinking against sunlight that feels too bright for whatever hour this is. Jake's side of the bed is cold, which means he's been gone long enough that I should probably be concerned.
I pad into the living room and stop dead.
Balloons. Everywhere. Crowding every surface, bouncing against the ceiling, filling the space with so much color I can barely process what I'm seeing. Flowers cascade from tables and counters—roses and lilies and arrangements that must have cost more than reasonable.
Four faces turn toward me simultaneously.
"Happy birthday!" The voices rise together in chaotic harmony—Jake, Violet, Zachary, and Maria, their expressions bright with genuine affection that makes my chest crack open.
I press one hand against my mouth, fighting tears that spill over anyway. "You did all this?"
"We conspired." Violet crosses to me first, wrapping her arms around me with careful attention to my belly. "You deserve celebrating properly."
"Happy birthday, Miss Adison." Maria's embrace follows, warm and maternal and everything I've needed without knowing it.
Zachary steps forward next, his professional composure softening into something almost tender. "Many happy returns."
Then Jake's there, pulling me against him while everyone else makes space. His kiss tastes like coffee and happiness, and when he pulls back his eyes shine with satisfaction.
"Gifts." Violet announces, gesturing at the pile on the coffee table. "Open them."
The next hour dissolves into tearing paper and laughter and embraces that feel like building something permanent from temporary chaos.
Violet gives me a leather journal with my initials embossed in gold.
Zachary presents a first edition of a book I mentioned loving months ago.
Maria hands me a frame containing a photo from the ranch—me and Jake and Violet and Paige, all smiling like we meant it.
Jake connects a video call to Texas, and suddenly Tommy and Paige fill the screen, their faces bright against the ranch's sunny porch.
"Happy birthday!" Paige's voice carries across the distance. "We miss you!"
"Miss you too." My throat tightens watching them. "All of you."
We talk for several minutes before Zachary clears his throat with pointed precision.
"Violet and I need to leave." He stands, already reaching for his jacket. "We're covering your responsibilities today. You're officially off-duty."
"Completely off-duty." Violet hooks herself onto his arm with exaggerated confidence, and I watch him attempt to dislodge her with half-hearted protests. "You can rely on us. We're very competent."
"Speak for yourself." Zachary mutters, but he's not actually trying to remove her anymore.
They leave together, and I catalog the way his hand almost—but not quite—settles against her back as they disappear through the door.
Maria retreats toward the kitchen, murmuring something about breakfast preparation.
Then it's just Jake and me in the balloon-filled living room, and he's gesturing toward a large box I hadn't noticed before—elegant wrapping paper, silk ribbon, something substantial waiting inside.
"One more." His voice carries promise. "Open it."
I cross to where the box sits, and anticipation builds like something electric beneath my skin.
Whatever's inside this box—whatever Jake chose specifically for this moment—I know it's going to change something.
I just don't know what yet.