Adison’s POV
Zachary delivers his report with the precision I've come to depend on, but something feels wrong.
"Walter's lawyers are failing to gain traction," he says, standing across from my desk like we're strangers conducting business. "The meetings dissolve into legal posturing without substance. They're stalling because they have no legitimate case."
I watch him speak, noticing the careful distance in his posture. He's always been measured—that's what makes him good at this job—but this is different. This is withdrawal dressed up as professionalism.
"I recommend filing a counterclaim for damages," he continues. "Frame it as a strategic offense. Force them to defend their position instead of attacking ours."
"Do it," I say without hesitation. "Whatever you think is best."
He nods once, making notes on his tablet, and the silence that follows feels like a wall I can't see but definitely feel.
"Zachary." I lean forward slightly. "Is everything okay?"
"Of course." The deflection is smooth, practiced. "Why do you ask?"
Because you're present in my office but absent in every way that matters, I think. Because something happened between yesterday and today that changed the air between us.
"You seem distant," I say carefully.
"Just focused on the case." He offers a neutral smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "There's a lot to manage."
I could push. Could demand he tell me what's really going on. But we're not those people—we're employer and employee, business associates who happen to like each other, and there are boundaries we maintain for good reasons.
"You know you can always talk to me," I say instead, and the words feel insufficient even as I speak them. "If something's bothering you. Personal or professional."
"I appreciate that." Another deflection, another wall. "I'll keep it in mind."
The alarm on my phone interrupts, sharp and insistent, and I silence it with a stab of my finger.
"Ultrasound appointment," I explained, gathering my things. "Finding out the baby's sex today. Well—the doctor's finding out. I'm just the messenger delivering sealed intelligence to my nineteen-year-old party planner."
"That's exciting." His voice warms slightly, and I catch a glimpse of the Zachary I know—the one who actually cares about things beyond legal strategy.
"Violet's been insisting on a baby shower and gender reveal party," I add, slipping my phone into my purse. "She's got this whole elaborate plan. The enthusiasm still surprises me."
"I know." Something flickers across his face—too quick for me to decode, gone before I can analyze it. "She mentioned it."
The way he says it makes me pause.
When did Violet mention it to him? Why does that simple statement feel loaded with subtext I'm not privy to?
But my alarm is still buzzing a reminder, and I don't have time to excavate whatever's happening beneath the surface of this conversation.
"I'll see you tomorrow," I say, moving toward the door.
"Good luck with the appointment." He's already turning back to his tablet, retreating into work like its armor.
* * *
That evening, I hand Violet the sealed envelope from Dr. Ortega, still unopened, still containing a secret I don't know.
"Don't open it in front of me," I warn, watching her take it with reverent hands. "I want to be surprised at the party with everyone else."
"I won't." She clutches it to her chest, grinning. "God, this is killing me already. I want to rip it open right now."
Jake looks up from his book, skeptical in that way he gets when confronted with an unnecessary ceremony. "Is all this really necessary? We could just open it. Like normal people."
"Where's the fun in that?" Violet counters, her eyes bright with something that looks like joy. "This is about creating a memory. Making it special. Marking the moment."
"It's a gender reveal, not a coronation," Jake mutters, but there's affection threading through his voice.
I find myself looking at him—this man who questions ceremony and complications, who prefers things simple and straightforward. And I understand that he's trying to protect me from disappointment, from investing too much in moments that might not deliver the magic we're hoping for.
"Jake." I move closer, touching his arm. "Just enjoy what's coming, okay? Let this one thing be joyful without complication."
He studies my face for a long moment, then nods. "Alright. Joy and no complications. I can do that."
"We won't make you wait long," Violet promises, practically vibrating with excitement. "I just need a couple days to set everything up."
She disappears into her room and returns moments later with two cards—thick, expensive cardstock with elegant script.
"Formal invitations," she announces, handing them over with ceremony. "Eleven a.m. at the penthouse this Saturday. Bring good mood and good health. That's all I'm asking."
I stare at the invitation, at the care she's put into every detail, and something breaks open in my chest.
Tears burn behind my eyes before I can stop them, and I'm horrified by the sudden emotion. Pregnancy hormones are a nightmare, turning me into someone who cries at thoughtful gestures and handwritten cards.
"Hey." Violet notices immediately, closing the distance between us. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." I try to laugh, but it comes out shaky. "This is just—it's so thoughtful. You didn't have to do all this."
"I wanted to." She hugs me, and the embrace is solid and real and exactly what I need. "It's an honor to make you happy, Adison. To be part of this."
The words hit deeper than she probably intended.
Because she's choosing to be here. Choosing to care. Choosing to invest in my happiness when she could just as easily keep her distance and protect herself from whatever complications come with getting too close to her mother's best friend and her dying father.
"Thank you," I manage, holding her tighter than the moment probably requires. "For all of it."
Jake watches us with an expression I can't quite read—something soft and wounded at the same time, like he's witnessing something that reminds him of everything he's lost and everything he's somehow found in the wreckage.
When Violet finally pulls back, she's smiling. "Saturday. Eleven a.m. Don't be late to your own party."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I tell her.
She disappears to her room, leaving Jake and me alone with our matching invitations and the strange, wonderful reality that we're building something here.
Something that feels like family, even if none of us know quite how to name it yet.