Chapter 8 - Forced Proximity in the Glass Tower
Returning to the Tribeca penthouse felt surreal.
The massive, minimalist space that had once felt so cold and hollow had been completely transformed. The guest suite on the second floor had been redesigned in warm, soft tones of cream and sage green. Fresh flowers sat on every nightstand, and an entire medical monitoring station had been discreetly installed in the adjoining room.
For the first three days, Adrian kept his promise. He never entered my room without knocking, never pushed for a conversation, and ensured that every meal prepared by his private chef met the strictest prenatal guidelines.
He had even moved his primary office setup to the penthouse library downstairs, refusing to leave the building so he could be near in case of an emergency.
On the fourth evening, unable to stay in bed any longer, I put on a warm cashmere robe and walked down the sweeping spiral staircase toward the kitchen for a glass of warm milk.
As I passed the library, I saw Adrian sitting at his mahogany desk in the dim glow of a single lamp. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie was discarded, and his laptop screen cast sharp shadows across his tired face.
Beside his laptop was a stack of parenting books: What to Expect When You're Expecting, The First-Time Father's Guide, and a handwritten notebook filled with detailed notes in his sharp, cursive handwriting.
My heart twisted in an unexpected way. The man who managed multi-billion dollar hedge funds was meticulously taking notes on infant sleep schedules and nursery safety standards.
As if sensing my presence, Adrian looked up.
"Claire," he said, immediately standing up and closing his laptop. "Are you feeling pain? Do you need the doctor?"
"No," I said softly, stepping into the library. "I'm fine, Adrian. The cramps haven't returned in two days."
His shoulders dropped in relief. "You shouldn't be walking down the stairs alone. You should have called me."
"I'm pregnant, Adrian, not made of glass," I replied with a small smile, walking over to the bookshelf.
He watched me carefully, his gaze lingering on the curve of my belly beneath the robe. "You look beautiful."
"Adrian..."
"I mean it," he said, taking a step toward me, his voice dropping into that deep, intimate register. "I spent three years living in this apartment with you, Claire, and I was too blind, too consumed by my own demons, to see what a paradise I had. I thought if I kept my heart locked away, nothing could hurt me. But losing you proved that living without you is worse than any pain I was trying to avoid."
I looked down at the carpet, my throat tightening. "We hurt each other too much, Adrian. You can't just erase three years of emotional neglect with parenting books and expensive doctors."
"I don't want to erase it," he said, closing the distance between us until he was standing right before me. "I want to atone for it. Give me a chance to court you, Claire. Not as your husband who failed you, but as a man who is desperately in love with the mother of his child."
May you like
Before I could answer, a loud buzz from his security console shattered the quiet room.
Marco’s voice came through the intercom, sounding unusually tense. "Mr. Moretti, we have a situation. Vanessa Russo just released a fabricated video statement to the national press. She is claiming that Claire Bennett stole trade secrets from Moretti Capital before the divorce—and that the child is the result of corporate espionage."
