Todos os capítulos de My Brother's Best Friend's Secret Baby: Capítulo 171 - Capítulo 180

Rosalie's POV The second exhibition took place in February. Patricia, from the Alcott Gallery, had wanted January, but I'd asked for February because January felt too soon after the first exhibition. Too rushed. The large painting I'd been struggling with had finally been finished in December, and I wanted to give it the space it deserved in the selection rather than squeeze it in at the last minute. Patricia had agreed to February. The preparation was different this time. Not easier. I wasn't sure it ever would be. But it was more familiar. I knew what the paintings looked like on these particular walls now. I knew the lighting, the angles, and the way Patricia hung them. It was a thoughtful, deliberate process that required trust. I had fourteen pieces this time, three more than my first exhibition, the result of four months of steady work. The promotion was different, too. Patricia had arranged a small feature in a local magazine, the kind of publication that covered arts

Rosalie's POV We were in his kitchen. It was a Wednesday night in late February, three days after the meeting with the agent, and I was sitting at his table reading through the contract she'd sent me while he made dinner. It had become a habit without either of us planning it, these evenings that stretched beyond whatever their original purpose had been until they simply became about being together. Lucy was with Mrs. Willow. I had the contract pages spread across his table. He'd read over my shoulder earlier and told me to call Richard and have him look it over, which was practical advice I intended to follow. He was standing by the stove. His phone was on the counter. It rang. He picked it up, looked at the screen, and something changed in his face. I watched it happen. Not gradually. The change was immediate and complete, as if a source of light had been removed from a room. Not switched off, but taken away. A moment ago, his face had belonged to an ordinary

Rosalie's POV He was standing in the same place. It had been four minutes since I went into the bathroom. Maybe five. He hadn't moved from where I'd left him, standing in the kitchen with his arms at his sides now instead of resting on the back of the chair. The tension in his shoulders was visible, that particular quality of someone holding perfectly still because they didn't know which movement would be appropriate. He was waiting for me to run. I could see it. That careful stillness of someone who had learned to read me over nine months and was now reading the situation, anticipating the most likely outcome based on everything he knew about me. The bathroom. The minute alone. The history. He thought I was going to come out of that bathroom and tell him I couldn't do this. I sat down on the couch. "Okay," I said. He looked at me. Not the controlled look. The real one. The unguarded version that appeared when something caught him off guard beyond the layer

Aiden's POV Thirty-six hours passed quickly, the way time always does when you wish it would slow down. I had already packed my bags countless times. With the efficiency that came from doing it so often that it no longer required effort, only muscle memory. The exact items, in the exact order, meant I could be ready in forty minutes if necessary, twenty if the situation demanded it. This time, it took me thirty minutes because I wasn't in a hurry. Because those thirty-six hours belonged to me, and I was going to use them well. I spent the morning taking care of the last logistical details. Richard already had standing instructions. I went over them with him on the phone, making sure everything was current and accessible, that Rosie had the secure contact number, that the letter in my office was exactly where I'd said it would be, and that Richard had a copy. He asked if there was anything else he should add. I said no. I called Marcus. He asked the necessary questions

Rosalie's POV The first week went well. I repeated that to myself every morning while I made my coffee. I was fine. I was busy. There was the gallery, Lucy's school schedule, my own work, and the March exhibition at a new space that Patricia had discussed with my agent. There were pieces to choose, prices to set, decisions to make, not to mention all the other things that filled every hour of my days. I was fine. On the third day, I texted the secure number. A short message. Just to say that we were doing well, that Lucy had won a card game, and that the sun had finally come out for the first time in a week. No response. I knew there probably wouldn't be one. He had told me that, explaining the communication restrictions surrounding classified deployments with the same calm pragmatism he'd shown during those thirty-six hours. I understood. The lack of a response told me nothing about his situation. It was simply the reality of things. The ring box was on m