Maternal Glow
Sixteen weeks pregnant, and Ava Blackwell was officially a walking hormone bomb.
One minute she was laughing hysterically at a cat video on her phone, the next she was sobbing because the refrigerator light felt too bright and lonely.
Lucian had learned to navigate the emotional minefield with the same strategic intensity he once used to dismantle hostile takeovers anticipating, adapting, and never, ever showing fear.
Tonight’s craving struck at 11:47 p.m.
Ava padded into the kitchen in one of Lucian’s oversized white dress shirts and absolutely nothing else, hair a wild halo around her head, eyes narrowed with the single-minded focus of a predator on the hunt.
I need peanut butter and pickles, she announced to the empty room, voice firm. Together. On the same spoon. Ri
