Semua Bab Claiming Emery : Bab 81 - Bab 90

The boutique owner looks slightly terrified as Killian examines every item in the store.“Sir, this crib is handcrafted Italian walnut,” she says nervously, watching him run his fingers along the wood grain. “It takes six months to—”“I will take two.”“Two?”“One for London, one for New York. Are there matching changing tables?”I stepped between Killian and the sales associate before he could commit to furnishing nurseries on two continents. “ We are just browsing today”“We are preparing,” Killian corrected, pulling out his phone to photograph the crib's specifications. “The baby will need somewhere to sleep when we visit Sophia.”“The baby won't be sleeping in cribs for months.”“Planning ahead.”This was our third baby store in two hours. Killian had approached shopping for our unborn child with the same intensity he brought to corporate acquisitions—research, strategy, and unlimited budget.“What about this one?” He moved to a display featuring something that looked more like a

The wedding invitation arrives with Alec's distinctive handwriting—elegant, precise, hopeful.I find it on my desk Thursday morning, cream paper with simple gold lettering that somehow feels more genuine than the elaborate invitations we usually receive. My name is written across the front in Alec's careful script, and something about seeing his handwriting makes me smile.“What's that?” Killian asks, appearing with coffee and the expression of someone who's already been awake for hours.“Alec's wedding invitation.”Killian pauses mid-sip. “Wedding?”“Apparently he's been keeping secrets.” I open the envelope carefully, not wanting to damage whatever's inside.The invitation is simple, beautiful: “Alexander Morrison and Dr. Sarah request your presence at their wedding ceremony, Saturday, November fifteenth, Martha's Vineyard.”“Dr. Sarah?” Killian reads over my shoulder.“You don't know her?”“Alec doesn't usually share personal information.”“Professional habit, I guess.”My phone ri

The auditorium holds three thousand women, and every seat is filled.I stand backstage at the International Women's Empowerment Conference in Geneva, watching the crowd through a gap in the curtains. Women from sixty countries, speaking dozens of languages, united by shared experiences of survival and rebuilding.“Five minutes, Mrs. Wolfe,” the stage manager says quietly.My hand settles automatically on my growing bump—twenty weeks now, our daughter active and strong. She's been moving constantly today, like she knows something important is happening.“How do you feel?” Killian asks, appearing beside me with the careful attention he's brought to every public appearance since we learned I was pregnant.“I’m nervous, excited, but ready.”“Your speech is perfect. You have practiced it a hundred times.”“This isn't about the speech. It's about whether I can reach them. Whether my story matters to women whose experiences are so different from mine.”“Your story matters because it's real.

The Nobel Committee representative sounds genuinely moved as she delivers the news.“Mrs. Wolfe, it is my honor to inform you that you have been selected to receive this year's International Humanitarian Award for your exceptional work in women's empowerment and social justice.”I stare at my phone, certain I have misheard. “I'm sorry, could you repeat that?”“The International Humanitarian Award, Mrs. Wolfe. The ceremony will be held in Stockholm next month, and we would be honored to have you deliver the keynote address to world leaders.”After I hang up, I sit in stunned silence for several minutes. The International Humanitarian Award—the same recognition given to Mother Teresa, Nelson Mandela, and other people who actually deserved it.“Em?” Mel appears in my doorway, carrying what looks like another stack of interview requests. “You look pale. Is everything okay?”“I just received a call from the Nobel Committee.”She drops the papers. “The Nobel Committee?”“International Human

The penthouse overflows with gifts, flowers, and women celebrating new life.I stand in the doorway watching thirty-eight powerful, successful, brilliant women transform our home into something that looks like a fairy tale crossed with a bookstore. Literary quotes hang from the ceiling, flower arrangements spell out words like “DREAM” and “HOPE,” and every surface holds wrapped packages in soft pastels.“Em, you look stunning,” says Minister Chen from the UK delegation, kissing my cheek. “Pregnancy glow is real.”“Pregnancy exhaustion is also real,” I laugh, accepting her hug carefully around my growing bump.“When are you due again?”“April. Spring baby.”“Perfect timing. She will arrive when the world is coming back to life.”I move through the crowd, marveling at the guest list Sophia, Mel, and Sarah assembled. Foundation staff, government officials, fellow advocates, business leaders, and women whose lives have intersected with ours over the years of building something meaningful.