Safe With You

Hidden In Plain Sight

~ Alyssa ~

A week.

It’s been one week since dinner with the girls, one week since we made them swear (on the threat of lifelong ice cream deprivation) to keep our baby a secret, and one week since everything shifted.

I’m officially showing.

Not in an obvious, “guess who’s pregnant” way — not yet — but enough that my favourite trousers are starting to fight for their lives every morning.

My body is changing faster than I expected.

Rounder. Softer. A small swell I can’t ignore anymore.

And I love it.

God help me, I love it.

But I also hate it — or rather, I hate how much effort it takes to keep it hidden.

Greyson, of course, has made a game out of noticing.

He’ll brush past me in the kitchen, his hand sliding down my side just long enough to rest on the gentle curve of my stomach, whispering something like “there’s our little secret.”

It makes me melt — every single time.

But at work?

Different story entirely.

I’ve mastered the art of strategic draping.

Loose blouses, high-waisted skirts, jackets left unbuttoned.

Every mirror in my studio is an accomplice in this charade, every angle rehearsed.

The world doesn’t know yet.

And for now, that’s exactly how I want it.

AQ hums with quiet energy today.

The soft whirr of sewing machines in the next room, the muted rhythm of music from Elle’s playlist.

My office smells faintly of lavender and steam from my tea — my sanctuary in fabric form.

I’m reviewing sketches for Savannah Riley’s charity gala gowns when my stomach gives an unexpected thump.

I freeze, stylus mid-air.

There it is again — stronger this time.

Like a flutter from inside.

I press a hand to the small curve, half in awe, half in disbelief.

“You’re feisty today,” I whisper. “Your father will be proud.”

The baby kicks again — almost like a reply.

I laugh quietly, shaking my head. “You really do have his timing.”

But when I catch my reflection in the glass wall, my smile fades.

The bump is unmistakable from this angle now.

Hidden under layers of silk, yes — but barely.

This can’t last much longer.

And then, somewhere between panic and inspiration, an idea takes hold.

Not just a fleeting “what if” — no.

A spark.

Something fierce.

Something only I could make real.

I’m already halfway down to the studio floor before I realise I’ve left my tea on my desk.

The staff glance up when I enter — curious, a little wary, because when I get that look in my eyes, it usually means one of two things: either they’re about to pull an all-nighter, or I’m about to revolutionise something.

“Elle,” I call, scanning the room.

She pokes her head out from behind a rack of samples. “Yes, boss?”

“Pull all the jersey, silk blends, and stretch satin we’ve got in storage. Neutral palette, but throw in the rose dust and deep navy bolts too.”

Her brow furrows. “Are we working on Savannah’s gala line again?”

“No,” I say, pacing the floor, the idea building with every heartbeat. “Something new.”

I stop beside one of the mannequins, running my fingers along its smooth surface.

It’s too flat, too unrealistic. A replica of perfection that doesn’t exist — not in the real world.

“Bring me the adjustable forms,” I add, my tone firmer now. “The ones that can expand.”

Elle looks intrigued but doesn’t ask. She’s learned that when I’m in this kind of mood, the answer will come soon enough.

By the time she returns with two interns in tow and a pile of fabric rolls, I’ve already pulled up a rough sketch on my tablet.

It’s simple — clean lines, breathable structure, but undeniably elegant.

Something that celebrates rather than hides.

For women like me, I think. For the ones who still want to feel powerful, even when the world expects them to fade into softness.

For the next two hours, I’m unstoppable.

My hands move without hesitation — cutting, pinning, draping.

The baby keeps fluttering every so often, like it’s keeping me company, like it knows we’re creating something just for the two of us.

The others hover, wide-eyed, as I work.

“What are we calling this?” Elle asks quietly, almost reverently, as I step back to assess the prototype.

I smile, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“‘Hidden Grace,’” I say after a moment. “A capsule collection for women who want to keep their strength and their shape — and their secrets — their own.”

Elle’s grin is instant. “You’re a genius.”

I shrug, pretending to play it off, but the warmth in my chest gives me away.

“I’m a woman who’s tired of fighting with zips,” I mutter, and the room bursts into laughter.

By late afternoon, the first mock-up is nearly done.

Stretch satin, soft draping around the waist, and an adjustable corset back — the kind I wish I’d had two months ago.

It’s not just comfortable; it’s stunning.

Even unfinished, it already has that Alyssa Rose signature — modern, sensual, strong.

Elle catches me staring at it, that dazed smile still on my lips.

“You’ve got that look again,” she teases. “The one you had before you launched the bridal line.”

I feign innocence. “What look?”

“The ‘I’m about to take over the world again’ look.”

I laugh. “Maybe.”

But deep down, I know she’s right.

Because this isn’t just another design.

It’s personal.

It’s freedom — stitched in silk and strength.

And for the first time since hearing that heartbeat turned my world upside down, I feel like myself again.

~ Greyson ~

When I step into AQ later that evening, the first thing I hear is laughter.

Not the polite kind that echoes through the offices sometimes — the real kind.

The kind that comes from somewhere deep, genuine, and completely unrestrained.

It leads me straight to the lower studio, where Alyssa’s perched on a stool, surrounded by fabric swatches and chaos — her chaos — and she’s glowing.

Literally glowing.

There’s colour in her cheeks, light in her eyes, and she’s animatedly explaining something to Elle, who looks both exhausted and star-struck.

I lean against the doorway, taking it in — the controlled storm of creativity, the hum of energy, the way she’s come back to life.

When she finally notices me, she grins.

“You’re early,” she says, brushing a curl from her face.

“You’re radiant,” I counter, stepping closer. “Which usually means trouble.”

She rolls her eyes but can’t stop smiling. “Not trouble. Inspiration.”

I glance at the mannequin beside her — the one draped in pale satin, hugging curves in all the right places.

“New line?”

She nods, her voice brimming with excitement. “Maternity wear.”

That catches me off guard. “You’re—?”

“Designing for women like me,” she says softly. “Women who don’t want to hide, but don’t want to be exposed either. Something elegant, flattering, forgiving.”

I can’t help but smile. “That’s brilliant.”

“It’s necessary,” she says, standing now, her hands smoothing the fabric as she talks. “Because I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to find something that fits — something that makes me feel like me — and everything out there makes you look like a walking tent.”

I chuckle. “So you’re solving your own problem.”

“As always,” she says proudly.

I step behind her, resting a hand gently on her waist — my thumb brushing the curve that’s no longer hidden beneath her loose top.

She goes still, then leans back into me with a soft sigh.

“They’re going to notice soon,” I murmur against her hair.

“I know.”

Her voice is quiet now, the spark replaced by a flicker of uncertainty.

“I’m just not ready yet.”

“You don’t have to be,” I tell her. “Not until you decide.”

She turns, meeting my eyes, her expression soft but steady.

“You really mean that, don’t you?”

I nod. “Always.”

The silence between us stretches, heavy but comforting.

Then, with a teasing smirk, she gestures at the gown.

“So, what do you think? Be honest.”

I take a slow look at it — then back at her. “I think it’s beautiful.”

Her eyes narrow playfully. “The dress, Greyson.”

“Oh,” I say, feigning confusion. “I thought we were still talking about you.”

She groans, smacking my arm, but she’s laughing again.

And just like that, the tension breaks.

Later, as I drive her home, she falls asleep against my shoulder, one hand instinctively resting on her stomach.

It hits me then — how surreal, how fragile, how right all of this feels.

The woman beside me. The family waiting at home. The quiet promise of the little life growing between us.

She’s hiding from the world, yes.

But to me?

She’s never been more visible.

~ Alyssa ~

When I wake the next morning, my phone’s already buzzing.

Elle’s sent photos of the finished prototype with a note:

“You’ve started something huge, boss.”

Maybe she’s right.

Maybe this is more than a collection.

Maybe it’s my way of reclaiming myself — my body, my story, my power.

I glance at the sleeping figure beside me — hair messy, arm draped protectively over my waist.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel completely at peace.

Not hidden.

Not exposed.

Just seen.