Chapter Four: The Penthouse
The elevator ride to the penthouse was silent.
Dante kept his arm around her. His other hand resting lightly on her belly. And she was too exhausted to push him away.
When the baby kicked against his palm, she felt him tense.
“Does it hurt?” he asked softly.
“When the baby moves? Sometimes. Mostly it’s just strange. Like there’s a person inside me living their own life.”
“There is a person inside you.”
His voice was filled with wonder.
“Our person.”
The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse. A security feature she remembered from before.
Nothing had changed.
The same modern furniture. The same floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The same grand piano in the corner that Dante had never learned to play.
But there was something different.
On the coffee table sat a stack of books. Pregnancy guides. Parenting manuals. Books about child development.
All of them looked well-read. Pages marked with sticky notes.
She stared at them, her throat tightening.
“Dante—”
“I told you. I’ve been preparing.”
He guided her to the couch, helping her sit before crouching in front of her again. This seemed to be his preferred position now. On his knees, looking up at her.
“From the moment I found out you were alive, I’ve been getting ready. Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“In case you came back.”
His hands rested on her knees. Warm and steady.
“In case I got a second chance.”
Before she could respond, the elevator chimed again.
A woman in her fifties stepped out, carrying a medical bag. She had kind eyes and a professional demeanor that immediately put Emma at ease.
“Dr. Morrison,” Dante said, standing. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
“Of course.”
She smiled at Emma.
“You must be Emma. I’m Clare Morrison. I specialize in high-risk pregnancies, though I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. Dante has told me a lot about you.”
Emma shot him a look.
He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed.
“Let’s get you examined, shall we?”
Dr. Morrison set down her bag.
“Is there somewhere we can have some privacy?”
“The bedroom?” Dante gestured toward the hallway. “I’ll show you.”
“I know where it is.”
Emma said it quietly.
Because of course she did. She’d slept in that bedroom for six months. Had memorized every inch of that space.
The thought of going back there made her chest ache.
Dr. Morrison helped her up. And Emma walked slowly down the hallway, feeling Dante’s eyes on her back with every step.
The bedroom was exactly as she remembered.
King-sized bed with charcoal sheets. Minimalist furniture. That same painting on the wall that she’d always thought looked like a storm over an ocean.
“Lie down, dear,” Dr. Morrison said gently. “Let’s see how you and baby are doing.”
The examination was thorough but gentle.
She checked Emma’s blood pressure. Listened to the baby’s heartbeat. Measured her belly.
Through it all, she asked questions. When was her due date? Had she been experiencing any unusual symptoms? Was she feeling the baby move regularly?
“Everything looks good,” she finally announced, helping Emma sit up. “Baby’s heartbeat is strong. Position is good. But Emma, you’re measuring a bit small. Have you been eating enough?”
Emma felt her cheeks heat.
“I eat. It’s just— finances have been tight.”
Dr. Morrison’s expression softened with understanding, not judgment.
“I’m going to write down some recommendations for you. High-protein foods. Prenatal vitamins — the good ones, not the cheap ones from the drugstore. And you need to be taking it easy. Working on your feet all day isn’t good for you or the baby, especially this late in the pregnancy.”
“I don’t have a choice. I have to work.”
“Actually—”
Dante’s voice came from the doorway.
“You don’t.”
Emma turned to find him leaning against the frame. Arms crossed.
How long had he been standing there?
“I told you to wait in the living room,” Dr. Morrison said mildly.
“It’s my penthouse. And my child.”
He pushed off the frame, walking into the room.
“What did you find?”
Dr. Morrison looked at Emma for permission.
Emma nodded. Too tired to fight.
“Mother and baby are healthy. But Emma’s under too much stress. She needs rest, proper nutrition, and someone to make sure she’s not overdoing it.”
She packed up her equipment.
“I’d like to see you weekly from now on, Emma. Just to monitor things as we get closer to your due date.”
“I can’t afford—”
“It’s handled.”
Dante interrupted.
“Send the bills to me, Clare.”
“Of course.”
Dr. Morrison smiled at Emma again.
“I’ll let myself out. Emma, take care of yourself. And call me immediately if you have any concerns — anytime, day or night.”
She handed Emma her card.
After she left, silence filled the room.
Dante stood by the window. Backlit by the afternoon sun. And Emma could see the tension in his shoulders.
“You’re not going back to that diner,” he said finally.
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m not telling you. I’m asking.”
He turned to face her.
“Please, Emma. Stay here. Let me take care of you. Let me—”
His voice cracked slightly.
“Let me be there for our child. Even if you can’t forgive me. Even if you still want the divorce after the baby is born. Just let me do this.”
Emma wanted to say no.
Wanted to maintain her independence. Her hard-won freedom from his world.
But she was so tired.
Tired of struggling. Tired of being afraid. Tired of pretending she had everything under control when she was barely holding on.
*She hated how easily she was falling back into him. Hated that her body remembered his warmth, his scent, the safety of his arms. This was exactly what she’d run from — not the violence, but the impossibility of resisting him.*
“Just until the baby is born,” she heard herself say. “And we need rules.”
“Anything.”
“Separate bedrooms. You don’t make decisions about the baby without consulting me. And if I want to leave, you let me go. No tricks. No tracking. No—”
“I’ll let you go if that’s what you really want.”
He moved closer. Stopping just out of reach.
“But I’m going to fight like hell to convince you to stay.”
The intensity in his ink-black irises made her breath catch.
This was dangerous. Being here in his space. Letting him back into her life, even temporarily.
It was like standing at the edge of a cliff.
But what choice did she have?
The baby kicked again. As if casting a vote.
Emma pressed her hand to the spot.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“But just until—”
The rest of her sentence was cut off by a sharp, searing pain that ripped across her abdomen.
Not a Braxton Hicks contraction.
Something else.
Something wrong.
She gasped, doubling over. And Dante was there instantly. His hands on her. His voice sharp with panic.
“Emma. Emma, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t— something’s—”
The pain intensified.
And she felt wetness between her legs.
When she looked down, her dress was stained with blood.
“No.”
She whispered it.
“No, no, no.”
Dante was already on his phone. Already barking orders.
“Clare, get back here now. Call an ambulance. Move.”
His arm wrapped around her as she started to slide off the bed.
The last thing she saw before the world went gray was the terror in his eyes.
Absolute. Consuming. Terror.
“Stay with me.”
His voice was the only anchor in the darkness.
“Emma, stay with me. Please don’t leave me again. Please.”
But the shadows were already pulling her under.
