His Brother's Ex, His Unborn Child

Chapter 2

ELENA

The Waldorf was magnificent in the way that powerful things often are — beautiful and slightly cold, designed to make you feel both elevated and small at once.

I stood at the top of the grand staircase for only a moment before Liam found me, pressing a hand to the small of my back and steering me into the flow of the evening with the practiced ease of a man entirely at home in rooms like this. He looked extraordinary — he always did at these events — and he smiled down at me with the full force of his charm.

"You wore champagne," he said. His eyes moved over the gown, then back to my face. "You look beautiful."

I had learned to notice when he meant it. Tonight, I thought he might.

The gala was everything the Carter Foundation galas always were: magnificent flower arrangements, a string quartet, a hundred conversations happening in careful layers underneath the pleasant noise. Liam moved through it fluently, collecting handshakes and laughter, bringing me along in his orbit the way a planet carries a moon. Sometimes he touched my arm to draw me into a conversation. Sometimes he touched it to steer me away from one.

I smiled when I was meant to smile, and after twelve years of galleries and collectors and opening nights, I had learned to do it without thinking.

At some point in the second hour, I excused myself toward the bar.

The noise thinned there, replaced by the gentle clink of ice and the easier, softer conversations of people who needed a moment away from the room. I accepted a glass of sparkling water — I wasn't drinking this evening; I'd been headache-prone lately — and let myself simply stand.

It was the only place in a room like this where standing alone was socially permissible.

"My dear."

I turned.

She was a small woman, soft around the edges in the way of someone who had been striking once and now simply radiated authority. I recognized her — Aunt Harriet, one of the older Carter relatives, the kind of woman who had attended every family event for thirty years and therefore felt entitled to say whatever she liked.

"You look thin," she said, by way of greeting.

"Thank you," I said, pleasantly.

She laughed. "Sit down, sit down. I don't bite." She patted the bar stool beside her, and I sat because refusing would require more energy than I had. "I've been meaning to speak to you all evening. Tell me — how are things? How are you and Liam getting on?"

"Very well," I said. "He's been wonderful."

She made a sound that might have been agreement or skepticism. "And — forgive an old woman's curiosity — is there any news?" She slightly glanced at my tummy. "Any happy news?"

My glass was very cold in my hand.

"Not yet," I said.

"Hmm." She tilted her head, studying me with the frank interest of someone who had stopped worrying about being subtle. "You've been married — what, three years now? Four?"

"Four."

"Lovely years for a family to start." Another tilt, another study. "Have you been trying? You know, my niece waited until thirty-eight, and it became very difficult. These things are better done early."

I kept my expression arranged. I kept my voice even. But something underneath my ribs tightened with the particular, exhausting ache of a wound that had been reopened too many times to be surprised anymore.

"We're taking it one day at a time," I said.

"Of course, of course." She patted my hand. "You're young still. But don't wait too long, darling. Margaret would love a grandchild."

Liam appeared at my shoulder.

I felt him before I saw him — the change in the air, the subtle shift in Aunt Harriet's expression from candid to social.

"Aunt Harriet." His smile was impeccable. "Monopolizing my wife?"

She laughed, pleased to be seen doing so. "Only a little. We were just talking." She glanced at me once more, warm and entirely well-meaning and completely unaware of the bruise she'd left. "You take care of her, Liam."

"Always," he said.

When she drifted away, we stood together in a silence that lasted just a moment too long.

I felt Liam beside me — his posture, the set of his jaw, the particular quality of his stillness. He was performing ease. I knew the texture of it.

"She meant well," I said, quietly.

"I know." His voice was even, controlled, and entirely without warmth.

My cheeks were warm. I looked at the condensation on my water glass and felt, not for the first time, the particular shame of being a woman whose body had become the subject of other people's gentle, relentless interest. Four years. Every family dinner. Every event. How are you, any news, don't wait too long.

"Let's not let it spoil the evening," I said.

He was quiet for a moment.

Then, unexpectedly, his hand found mine. His fingers wrapped around my knuckles, steady and warm, and when I looked up at him, he was looking at me with something I hadn't seen in a while — something that looked almost soft.

"It won't," he said. "I promise."

**

The drive out of the city began in easy silence.

His thumb moving in slow circles against the back of my hand while he's driving.

He'd been attentive all evening — refilling my glass, keeping a hand at my back, steering conversations away from anything difficult while trying to socialize with the others from time to time. Now it's just the two of us.

I watched the city lights thin into suburbs, suburbs thin into open road.

"We're going further than I expected," I said.

"It's outside the city." He smiled. "That's the point."

The road narrowed. Trees gathered on both sides, their shapes dark against the sky.

"How much further?"

"Twenty minutes, maybe." He glanced over. "Is that all right?"

"Of course." I looked out the window again. "I'm just not sure I know this area."

He reached for my hand. "I wanted somewhere no one knows us. No family, no events. Just somewhere quiet and beautiful." He paused. "I rented a lakehouse. It's private. It's ours for the whole weekend if we want it."