PART 6
For the first time since Christmas Eve, I nodded.
Roman moved to the edge of the chair.
His palm rested gently against the curve beneath my ribs.
Our daughter kicked almost immediately.
He smiled.
Not the public Roman Carter smile.
Not the restrained one used in photographs.
The real one.
“She still hates me.”
“She kicks everyone.”
“Good.”
He left his hand there for only a few seconds.
Then removed it himself.
That mattered too.
Our daughter was born nine days later.
January eleventh.
At 4:26 in the morning.
We named her Amelia Grace Carter.
Roman was there.
But not because he demanded to be.
Because I asked him.
The labor was long.
Ordinary.
Exhausting.
Human.
Roman held my hand when I wanted him to.
Moved away when I didn’t.
He got ice chips.
He called Tessa.
He cried when Amelia finally arrived.
Quietly.
Almost embarrassed by it.
The nurse placed our daughter against my chest.
She was red-faced, furious, perfect.
Roman stood beside the bed looking at her as though someone had handed him the entire universe and warned him not to break it.
“Savannah.”
I looked at him.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
He looked at Amelia.
“For letting me be here.”
That was perhaps the first time I understood how much had changed.
The old Roman would have believed presence was his right.
This Roman knew it had been given.
I did not move home after the hospital.
That surprised everyone except Tessa.
Roman had prepared the estate.
New security protocols.
No Carter family personnel.
A smaller staff.
No internal cameras beyond exterior entrances.
He even had the nursery finished exactly as I left it.
But I still did not return.
Instead, Amelia and I stayed with Tessa for three weeks.
Then I rented a house in Lincoln Park.
Small by Carter standards.
Enormous by normal standards.
Three bedrooms.
A little courtyard.
No gates.
No stone walls.
Roman hated the parking situation.
That made me like it more.
He visited Amelia according to a schedule we created together.
At first, our conversations were entirely practical.
Feedings.
Sleep.
Pediatric appointments.
Diapers.
One afternoon, Roman arrived carrying six different kinds of pacifiers.
I stared at the bag.
“What is this?”
“Research.”
“She is three weeks old.”
“Exactly.”
“You cannot optimize a baby.”
“I have already learned that.”
“Good.”
Amelia began crying.
Roman looked alarmed.
I laughed.
“Powerful man defeated by seven pounds of person.”
“Eight pounds now.”
“You’ve been tracking.”
“Obviously.”
For the first time in weeks, the room felt easy.
That frightened me more than tension.
Because warmth could become hope.
And I was not ready to trust hope.
Roman began therapy.
He did not tell me for six weeks.
I learned when he accidentally left an appointment card inside the diaper bag.
I handed it back.
“You don’t have to hide this.”
“I wasn’t hiding it.”
“You put it inside the emergency wipes.”
“I don’t organize the bag.”
“That is obvious.”
He smiled.
Then I looked at the name on the card.
Dr. Elias Morgan.
“I’m glad you’re going.”
Roman’s smile disappeared.
“I should have gone years ago.”
“Yes.”
“No argument?”
“You’ve already paid someone to argue with you.”
He laughed.
Then became serious.
“I am not doing it to get you back.”
I studied him.
“That sounded rehearsed.”
“My therapist said I should tell you.”
“Then he’s earning his money.”
Roman shook his head.
“But it’s true.”
I believed him.
Not completely.
But enough.
The property dispute with Adrian settled in March.
No dramatic courtroom victory.
No public scandal.
May you like
Just lawyers, accountants, revised deeds, and one mediation session that lasted eleven hours.
Claire’s family recovered a minority financial interest her father should have received years earlier.
