Semua Bab The CEO's Stepdaughter: Bab 91 - Bab 100

Niccola FairchildCole drives with one hand on the wheel and the other on my knee, his thumb tracing calm little circles as if he’s keeping time with my breathing. I’m not nervous, exactly.We pull up in front of a narrow brownstone tucked between two grander ones, like it doesn’t care about competing. It’s understated from the outside—warm stone, black iron railings, a small set of steps rising to a glossy door. There’s something about it that makes my chest tighten the way it does when I see something I didn’t know I needed.“It’s small,” I say, almost apologetic, because I’m used to homes being statements.Cole glances at me. “Good.”The agent is already waiting. She’s polished, bright, the kind of person whose smile feels like it comes with a contract. She introduces herself, asks if we’d like the full tour, and I nod even though I’m already halfway inside my own imagination. The moment the door opens, I understand why Cole chose this listing.

Cole SutcliffeThe office is still half a promise. Boxes line one wall, blueprints stacked neatly on the desk, a single framed photo leaning against the window instead of hanging straight. The light in here is good, clean, honest, the kind that makes plans feel possible instead of theoretical.Sawyer drops into the chair across from me and spins once, testing the weight of the room. “You know,” he says, glancing around, “for a guy who just survived public destruction, you’re really committing to optimism.”I smile faintly. “I’m committing to control.” He nods, understanding that instantly. I always loved control. That was the hardest part for me when I was being accused of… I don’t even like to think about it. The lack of control over my life. That drove me almost insane. On the desk between us are the bones of something new: contracts, renovation

Niccola FairchildI stand in the bedroom in front of the mirror, already tired before the day has even begun, one hand braced on the dresser and the other resting protectively over my stomach. My body feels heavy, unfamiliar, every movement deliberate now. Cole moves behind me, fastening the back of mydress, slipping my shoes on as I sigh in defeat. Cole kisses my shoulder. “You look stunning,” and, I smile as I lean against him. The house smells like vanilla and citrus and something warm I can’t quite place, sugar, maybe, or comfort. It’s the first thing I notice when I step into the living room and stop short, one hand instinctively going to my stomach.“Oh,” I breathe. Steph grins like she’s been waiting for that exact reaction. The space has been transformed, not aggressively, not in that overwhelming, social-media-perfect way I was afraid of, but thought

Niccola FairchildIt starts with a pain sharp enough to pull me out of sleep. Not a dream-pain. Not a stretch-too-fast pain. This is low and insistent, blooming in my back and wrapping forward like it knows exactly where to go. I lie there for a moment, hand on my stomach, waiting for it to fade. It doesn’t. I shift. Breathe. Count. Then it comes again, stronger this time.“Cole,” I whisper.He’s awake instantly, like he’s been waiting for this moment since the positive test. “What? What is it?”“I think,” I say carefully, another wave cresting, “I think this might be it.” Cole’s out of bed before I finish the sentence. Lights on. Phone in hand. Shoes half-on, half-thrown.“Oh God,” he says. “Okay. Okay. We’re ready. We’re ready.”I blink at him. “We are?”“Yes,” he says, voice already an octave higher than usual. “We have bags. We have a plan. We…” Another contraction cuts through me, and I gasp, fingers digging into the mattress.

Niccola FairchildMotherhood does not arrive gently. It arrives in fragments, half-slept hours, sore muscles I didn’t know I owned, a constant low-level hum of responsibility that never fully switches off. By the fifth day home, time has lost its shape. Morning and night blur together, measured not by clocks but by feedings, cries, and the small, grounding weight of Aiden against my chest. I love him so fiercely it scares me. That part is easy. Everything else feels like learning to walk again on a moving floor.When Steph knocks, I’m sitting on the couch with one sock on, hair in a messy knot, Aiden finally asleep in my arms after an hour of negotiations. I haven’t eaten anything that didn’t come out of a wrapper, and I’m pretty sure I cried earlier because I couldn’t find a clean burp cloth. Ophelia has been a godsent but even when she helps everythig is difficult. Steph takes one look at me and drops her bag. “