I threw up twice before nine a.m., and neither time had anything to do with the baby.
Nerves, pure and simple. The kind that lived in your knees and made your hands forget how to hold a coffee cup without shaking half of it onto your sleeve.
Rosa had picked out my outfit the night before, something professional but soft, a deep green blouse that didn't scream billionaire's houseguest or woman who cried into a stranger's blanket four months ago. Just Brielle Taylor. Business owner. Mother-to-be. Woman with a plan.
I stood in front of the mirror in the guest room and practiced saying it out loud one more time.
"My name is Brielle Taylor, and I'm here to rebuild."
It still felt like a costume line. But it was mine.
Cassian drove me. Damian had offered, obviously, in that clipped, unboth
