- SERAPHINE
The Gulfstream G650 touched down on the tarmac at Teterboro with that smooth, arrogant quiet we only get when we spend fifty million dollars to ignore gravity.
My stomach, already on a rollercoaster thanks to the baby’s morning gymnastics, did a slow, nauseous roll as the reverse thrusters roared, pushing me back into the buttery Italian leather seat.
Twelve weeks along. I hadn't had a single prenatal vitamin that wasn't ground up in a protein shake by Declan, but I didn't need a doctor to know the baby was ready for New York. The energy humming inside me was a fierce, protective shield that was currently at odds with the sheer terror threatening to paralyze me.
You're not Seraphine, I told myself, clutching the armrests until my knuckles turned white under Julian’s lambski
