[POV Stefan]
I came home at eleven PM, slightly unsteady from the two drinks that became more than that after walking Lila home. The house was dark except for the kitchen light, and I stood in the foyer for a moment, trying to collect myself.
The kiss replayed against my will.
Her wine-sweet mouth. The desperation in the gesture. How young she felt against me, rising on her toes to reach. I'd handled it correctly—established boundaries immediately, walked away without looking back.
That was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.
But my hands still remembered the warmth of her shoulders, and that was a problem.
I'd always known Lila was beautiful.
It was an objective observation I'd filed away the first time Harper brought her home three years ago. Wide eyes, nervous energy, sharp intelligence barely contained in someone so young.
Pretty girls were everywhere. Harper's friends, Eleanor's junior associates, the barista at my regular coffee shop. You noticed and moved on.
You didn't think about how they tucked their hair behind their ear when nervous, or how their face lit up when discussing medical theories. Or how they laughed at their own jokes before anyone else could react.
You especially didn't notice these things about your stepdaughter's best friend.
The reasons were obvious: the age gap, Harper's friendship, basic decency, my marriage.
The marriage.
I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that I was left alone with grandiose plans. Where had those days gone when Eleanor and I planned our child together, where had her promises and enthusiasm gone?
We already had a wonderful Harper, and I'm glad it was just the three of us in that house—I don't know how I would have handled all that pressure without her priceless, caustic comments.
But she already had a biological father, and I wouldn't dare to claim his place in her heart. It was enough that I was always there, that we both accepted each other.
But at my age, there's still no one to call me "dad."
I was trying to be quiet, easing off my shoes and hanging my coat, but Eleanor's voice cut through the darkness. "Where were you?"
She was in the kitchen, pouring sparkling water, still in her work clothes despite the late hour. Her blouse was pristine, not a wrinkle in sight.
She probably hadn't even sat down since her "emergency board meeting."
But the question surprised me. She hadn't asked about my whereabouts in months.
"The surrogacy agency," I said, leaning against the doorframe. The scotch made me more honest than usual. "Signing contracts. Then she wanted to celebrate—just one drink to mark the occasion."
I didn't mention who our surrogacy was and how Lila's face looked in the bar lighting. Didn't mention the kiss. The way her lips tasted like wine and desperation and something I had no right to want.
"Mmm." Eleanor took a sip of water. "That's nice. Everything went well then?"
She was maintaining dialogue, showing interest, but I recognized the performance. She was looking through me, not at me, already calculating something else.
This was what we did now—pretended at marriage.
"The paperwork is done. Medical screening is next week."
"Good, good." She rinsed her glass, methodical, precise. Every movement was controlled. "I was actually thinking about this whole surrogacy thing..."
She paused, as if the thought had just occurred to her. I knew better. Eleanor never said anything that hadn't been carefully considered first.
"It's quite a risk, isn't it?" she continued. "I was reading that surrogate mothers always have the right to keep the child after birth. Even with contracts."
I frowned. "That's not— Eleanor, that rarely happens. The contracts are iron-clad. The agency explained all of this."
"If you say so." She dried her hands on a towel, voice light, unconcerned. "I just wonder what happens if someone gets... attached. Nine months is a long time. Hormones, emotions."
She turned to face me, her expression unreadable. "Women change their minds."
"She won't."
I said it too quickly. Too firmly.
Eleanor looked at me then—really looked at me—and something flickered in her expression. Recognition, maybe. Or suspicion.
"She?" A deliberate pause. "You mean the surrogate?"
"Yes. She understands the arrangement. And the agency approved her."
"Well, I suppose you know best," Eleanor set down the towel, smoothing it flat against the counter. "You're the one who wanted this baby so desperately."
The words landed like stones. You're the one. Not we. Not us.
This had always been my dream, not hers. She'd agreed to the surrogacy the way she agreed to dinner reservations.
Because it was easier than arguing, because it maintained the appearance of a functional marriage, because saying no would require explanations she didn't want to give.
"Eleanor…"
"I'm tired." She walked past me toward the stairs, no kiss goodnight, no touch. Not even a brush of shoulders. "Don't stay up too late."
I watched her go, listening to her footsteps on the stairs, the distant click of the guest room door. The guest room. Six months now since she'd slept in our bedroom.
Six months of polite conversations and separate lives and pretending this was normal.
In my office, I poured another scotch I didn't need, while Eleanor's words circled in my mind.
Women change their minds, get attached.
But all I could think about was Lila. How her hand gripped mine at the clinic when she was scared. Her nervous rambling at the bar, all that vulnerability she tried so hard to hide.
I thought about Eleanor upstairs in the guest room, probably already asleep, unbothered by my absence.
And somewhere across town, Lila was in her cramped apartment, probably mortified, replaying that kiss the same way I was.
The contrast felt like standing between two different worlds.
I opened my laptop, thinking I should send something. Establish boundaries. Make it clear that what happened tonight could never happen again, that we needed to keep this professional, that…
The cursor blinked at me, waiting.
I typed: Thank you for today. For everything you're doing.
Stared at the words. Deleted them immediately.
There was nothing safe to say. Nothing that wouldn't reveal too much. Every sentence I composed in my head sounded like a confession I wasn't ready to make.
I can't stop thinking about you.
Delete.
The kiss was a mistake, but…
Delete.
Eleanor and I haven't touched in six months, and you looked at me like I could…
Delete, delete, delete.
I closed the laptop and finished my scotch, letting the burn distract me from the ache in my chest.
Tomorrow I'd be Eleanor's husband again. I'd maintain the performance, attend the meetings, make small talk at dinner if she bothered to come home for it.
I'd be responsible, appropriate, everything a man my age was supposed to be.
But tonight, alone in my office with the taste of scotch on my tongue and the memory of Lila's lips ghosting through my mind, I admitted the truth to myself.
Eleanor was right about one thing. Someone was getting attached.
But it wasn't the surrogate I was worried about.