POV Xander
The smell of coffee and butter filled the penthouse kitchen, rising with the sizzle of eggs in the pan. For the first time in weeks, I felt alive. My chest was light, my hands steady.
Norah was here again—back under this roof, back where she belonged. I wanted everything to be perfect for her, so I woke up early, determined to cook her breakfast myself instead of leaving it to the staff.
Every slice of toast, every piece of fruit I arranged on the platter felt like an offering. My mind drifted back to Alaina.
Just yesterday, I had booked her into another hotel across the city, making it clear that until she produced a medical test proving that child was mine, she would not set foot in my home again.
The way her face twisted when I said it—rage and desperation in one—was burned into me. I didn’t care.
My focus was Norah. She was here, and I wasn’t going to lose her again.
Soft footsteps reached me. I turned just as Norah walked into the kitchen, her hair still damp from the shower, her face fresh, glowing.
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
“Good morning,” I said, voice low, almost reverent. “Sit down. Breakfast is ready.”
Her brows arched slightly. “You cooked?”
I slid the plate in front of her, eggs, toast, fruit. “I wanted to. For you.”
She smiled—soft, hesitant—but it made my chest ache. “It looks wonderful.”
“You’re beautiful,” I said before I could stop myself. The words slipped out raw, unpolished. Her eyes widened, then she lowered her gaze, cheeks tinged pink.
“Xander…” she whispered, like she wasn’t sure how to take it.
I reached across the counter, brushing my fingers against hers.
“Tonight,” I said, steadying myself, “we’re having dinner at the family estate. My grandmother… she’s hosting. I want you there with me.”
Her eyes lifted, uncertainty flickering. “Your family?”
“Yes. My mother, my grandmother, and…” My jaw tightened. “Others.”
She nodded slowly, almost steeling herself. “If this is important to you, then I’ll come.”
It was more than important. It was necessary. I needed my family to see her at my side, not as a shadow but as the woman who carried my child, the woman who owned my heart.
* * *
The Crawford estate loomed like a fortress, its stone walls lit by golden chandeliers spilling out through the tall windows. I held Norah’s hand tightly as we walked in, feeling the tremor in her fingers.
Inside, the atmosphere was a battlefield disguised in velvet. My mother swept forward first, her face warm, her arms opening.
“Norah,” she said, embracing her with surprising tenderness. “I’ve heard so much about you. You’re even lovelier in person.”
Norah smiled faintly, whispering a thank you, and for a moment, hope flared in me.
But then the air shifted. The sound of heels striking marble.
My grandmother entered, every inch the queen she believed herself to be—spine straight, eyes sharp, lips curved in a knowing smile. And at her side, clinging like a prized ornament, was Alaina.
Behind them, Chris appeared, his gaze colliding with mine for a brief, searing moment before flicking toward Norah.
“Ah,” my grandmother’s voice rang out, commanding the entire room. “So this is the girl.” She surveyed Norah like a merchant inspecting goods. “The surrogate.”
Norah stiffened beside me, the word striking like a lash. My grip on her hand tightened, but my grandmother wasn’t done.
“You must understand, my dear,” she continued, smiling with poison, “bearing a Crawford child does not make you one of us. You are a vessel, nothing more. And no child born this way will inherit what belongs to this family.”
Gasps rippled across the table. I felt Norah’s hand tremble violently in mine, but before I could speak, Alaina stepped forward, her lips curled into a smirk.
“Imagine it,” she purred. “The mighty Xander Crawford, reduced to paying for a womb because he thought no one else would give him a child.” Her voice dripped with false pity, every word designed to cut. “How desperate he must have been.”
Snickers rose around the table, whispers spreading like wildfire. Norah’s face drained of color, her shoulders tightening as if she could make herself smaller.
I opened my mouth, but Alaina’s voice sharpened, louder now.
“And now that I am pregnant with his child,” she said, her hand brushing her stomach with theatrical flair, “he refuses to accept it. Tell me, how fair is that?”
The room erupted—murmurs, laughter, speculation. Norah’s head bowed, her body rigid with humiliation. My blood roared in my ears.
That was the breaking point.
My chair screeched against the floor as I rose, my hand crushing Norah’s in mine. My voice cut through the chaos, sharp as thunder.
“Enough.”