Harris was like a brother to her. Her child’s uncle. But he wasn’t enough. Greyson needed to be here.
Why had he abandoned her when she needed him most?
“I want my husband.”
Harris made soft soothing sounds. He was trying his best, but Libby wasn’t in the right frame of mind to appreciate that right now.
“I know, Bug. His plane landed an hour ago; he’ll be here soon.”
“He doesn’t want our baby.” The pain was coming almost constantly now. But her admission hurt her so much more than the physical discomfort of labor. A soul-deep, gut-wrenching acknowledgment that had been gnawing at her for months.
“That’s nonsense.” Harris’s voice was crisp and matter of fact. He sounded so confident that Libby could almost fool herself into believing him. “Of course he does. He’s just been busy.”
“No. I can tell. He’s so disinterested, he hates us both . . . I know it.” She was incoherent and irrational in her pain. All she knew was that she was about to have her first child, and her husband wasn’t with her. He wouldn’t be there to see his son or daughter come into the world. She had known something was wrong—had known it since she’d first announced her pregnancy—but she had used the same excuses Harris was now employing. Greyson was busy, he was under stress, he was traveling a lot . . . so many excuses. None of them true.
All rational thought fled when the pain changed, became deeper, more agonizing.
“Not long now,” the doctor advised. “You’re fully dilated, Olivia. Time to push.”
“I can’t; he’s not here yet. He’s going to miss it.”
“It’s okay, Bug,” Harris comforted her gently. “He’s trying his best to get here, and I know he’ll be gutted to miss it. Do you want me to get your mum?”
Libby was barely able to focus on the question, but she shook her head.
“You know she’s squeamish.” She gasped, her hand tightening around his fingers for a few moments as she rode out another swell of pain. “Tina here?” Tina was her best friend and had attended half of her birthing classes with her. Harris had attended the other half, filling in for his always-absent brother.
“She’s on her way, but I don’t think she’ll get here in time.” This baby definitely wasn’t wasting any time. Libby had always heard that first births took a long time, but this was a very hasty affair. Barely six hours had passed from the first contraction to now.
“Then you’re the guy,” she told Harris with a grimace of pain, and he nodded, his grip on her hand tightening.
“Well, you heard the doctor, Bug. Time to push.”
She didn’t want to. How could she? A father needed to see his child come into the world. But in the end the overwhelming need to push overruled all else, and Libby did what instinct dictated.
Hours later, after the initial excitement of showing her baby off to her parents, her in-laws, and Tina, Libby woke from an exhausted sleep and blinked into the gloom of the room. It took her a moment to orient herself, and she tensed when a confused glance to her left confirmed her husband’s presence. His face was grim as he stared off into the middle distance. Completely identical to Harris but so unmistakably Greyson.
“Did you see her?” Her voice was hoarse, and she absently noted that she was thirsty. His eyes shifted to hers.
“Yes.” His voice was curt, displaying absolutely no emotion.
“She looks like you.”
“Does she?” Still in that horribly cold voice.
“I think so.”
“Then she looks like Harris, too, doesn’t she?”
“I suppose so,” she said, a bit baffled by the fact that he felt the need to point that out. “I missed you. I wanted you to see her come into the world.”
“Shit happens,” he said with a dismissive shrug, looking like he had not one single regret at missing such a momentous occasion.
“I asked you not to go. I told you I was due soon.”
“And I told you it couldn’t wait. Ten million dollars disappeared; I had to get to Perth to figure out what the fuck was going on down there.”
“Harris could have gone,” she pointed out. In fact, Harris should have gone. As the CFO of the Chapman Global Property Group, he was the obvious choice to deal with an embezzlement problem. In fact, she was sure that any of their executives could have handled the problem without either of the Chapman brothers getting directly involved.
She licked her dry, chapped lips, desperate for a sip of water, and was about to ask Greyson to pour her a glass, but his icy indifference made her hesitate.
He doesn’t want to be here.
It was obvious in the tense set of his jaw and the bleak coldness in his elusive gaze. He sat stiffly, his shoulders straight and his spine barely touching the backrest of the chair. Greyson had always been a little unapproachable, but this was something else entirely. This was a stranger. A man who looked like he had never touched her with any tenderness or passion. A man who looked like he barely knew her and didn’t much care to.
His gaze shifted and made contact with hers, and in a moment of absolute and stunning clarity, she understood that this man—her husband—hated her. The knowledge stole her breath, and she gasped, her eyes flooding with tears at the shocking revelation. She had never fooled herself into believing that he loved her, but she’d always thought he liked her or at least had some measure of fondness for her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, likely in response to her tears. His voice was as indifferent as the rest of him, and she knew he didn’t care what her answer would be.
“I-I was thinking . . . we never discussed names,” she prevaricated hastily, needing a moment to gather her thoughts and emotions. His brow kinked, the only expression he ever allowed himself. “What should we name her?”
He shrugged. The gesture was disdainful and disinterested at the same time.
“You choose.”
“But . . .”
“Name her whatever the fuck you want,” he snapped, the ice cracking and allowing her a glimpse into the terrifying darkness lurking beneath. The profanity shocked her, as Greyson rarely swore. Harris was the earthier of the two and could swear up a storm at the slightest provocation. Greyson had a great deal more restraint than his ten-minutes-younger brother.
Libby struggled to push herself up, and he didn’t move a muscle to assist her.
“Okay, Greyson, what the hell is your problem?” she wheezed, after—with a great deal of difficulty and indignity—managing to lift herself enough to feel less vulnerable.
“Not sure what you mean.”
“You know exactly what I mean,” she snapped, folding her arms over her chest and wincing a little when she brushed against her oversensitive nipples. They would be bringing the baby in for a feeding soon. Before, she had been excited for Greyson to witness that, at least, since he had missed so much else, but now she no longer knew what she wanted. All she knew was that she had to figure out what was going on, and soon. They couldn’t continue like this. “You’ve been cold and distant and not the slightest bit interested since I told you I was pregnant. And I want to know why!”
He smiled . . . if one could call it that. A frigid, joyless baring of teeth that looked terrifyingly sinister on his gorgeous face.
“Because it doesn’t interest me. None of this interests me, not you and not your child. I was hoping you’d come clean, but I see you’d just happily continue with this ridiculous charade if I allowed it.”
“What are you talking about?” Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, and suddenly her thirst felt uncontrollable. She desperately wanted that water, needed it, focused on it to the exception of all else. Because it was so much better to concentrate on her raging thirst and the currently unobtainable water than it was to look into her husband’s hate-filled dark-blue eyes. She didn’t want to hear what he had to say—she knew it would be ugly and hurtful and would finally damage what was left of their relationship beyond repair.
> “Hello, Mummy . . . look who’s awake and hungry!” A cheerful voice sliced through the oppressive tension like a machete, and Libby jumped. Greyson shifted his hostile gaze toward the doorway, where a nurse was wheeling a crib into the lavish private hospital room. The woman’s eyes were trained on the tiny, pink-wrapped bundle in the crib, which thankfully allowed Libby a moment to regroup and plaster a smile onto her face.
The smile became genuine when the pleasantly rounded, apple-cheeked middle-aged nurse lifted the infant and gently handed her over to Libby. Avoiding Greyson’s intense stare, Libby kept her focus on the adorably scrunched-up face of her gorgeous daughter.
“Hey there, sweet thing, are you hungry?” she asked gently. “Oh my God, you’re so beautiful.” The last was breathed reverentially as she unwrapped the folded blanket and once again took inventory of those perfect little fingers and toes, that delightful button nose, the pair of confused milky-blue eyes, and the tuft of black, downy hair on a perfectly round little head. Libby would have to say that this was probably the most perfect baby that anyone had ever birthed ever.
She tried to share a smile of delight and wonderment with Greyson and found him glowering at their tiny daughter like she was a strange and particularly unattractive species of insect. Libby hugged her baby close to her chest, immediately feeling the overwhelming urge to protect her from the borderline hostility she saw in her husband’s eyes.
The nurse was bustling about, helping Libby sit up a little straighter, elevating the hospital bed so that her back was supported.
“Do you need help feeding her, or do you think you can cope?” the woman asked brightly, and Libby shook her head, her eyes on the baby, who was already starting to root against her chest.
“I think we’ll be fine.”
“Congratulations, Daddy.” The nurse finally acknowledged Greyson’s brooding presence, and her bright smile dimmed a bit when she received nothing in response. “Um, so I’m Sister Thompson. Press the call button if you need me.”
She cast another uncertain look at Greyson before leaving.
Libby concentrated on her baby’s needs, because that was so much better than dealing with Greyson right now. She unbuttoned her pajama top and gently directed her daughter’s seeking mouth toward the nipple. The infant latched on greedily, and soon the room was filled with nothing but the sounds of her suckling and contented little snuffles.
Libby couldn’t stop touching her, brushing her thumb over the baby’s downy cheek, then the silken fluff of her black hair, the barely there brows, and her sweet nose, which looked like it would eventually take Greyson’s perfect shape. She lifted the warm, sweet-smelling bundle slightly so that she could drop a kiss onto her brow.
“You need a name, sweetheart,” she whispered against the soft skin of her baby’s head. “What about Clara?”
She deliberately chose a name she knew Greyson hated, wanting some reaction from him. Something that would show that he cared. If he protested against the name, at least she’d know he was interested, that he wouldn’t want his daughter named after his and Harris’s much-despised childhood nanny.
But he said not one word, and she lifted her eyes to his face. He was staring at the baby, his gaze hooded and his expression blank.
“Greyson?” she whispered, wanting him to look at her, to tell her what was wrong. He lifted his eyes, and all that frigid hostility came flooding back. She started shaking, feeling that ice settle into her bones.
“I’m going to get some coffee,” he said abruptly, shoving himself out of the uncomfortable-looking chair. It looked too small for his massive frame. Strange how that worked: Harris was the same height and size as Greyson, but she hadn’t feared for the chair’s immediate future when he’d been sitting in it earlier.
Greyson always seemed so much larger than life. At least he did to her. He had always been the one she’d been drawn to, even when they were kids. He’d been the broody twin, the one who would nurse a grudge and seethe in silence for hours. Harris had been, and still was, the complete opposite. His temper would boil over, and he’d have a good old rant and then go back to being his jovial self in very short order. The twins were as opposite as night and day when it came to temperament.
Growing up, Libby had always been fascinated by Greyson’s mysterious silences. Harris had never interested her in the same way. Four years younger than the brothers, Libby had known the twins her entire life but had never been a part of their social circle. Even though she had attended the same private school they had—a stipulation in both her parents’ employment contracts—she had never really belonged. Only Martine—Tina—Jenson, also ostracized from the twins’ glamorous clique of friends, had befriended her.
Libby and the twins had played together at home, of course, but when the boys had reached their teens, they had started hanging out with their social equals, had attended parties and events that nobody had ever bothered inviting Libby to. Harris had happily given her the details her voyeuristic, envious heart craved, and she would listen breathlessly and gawk at the pictures on his phone.
At twelve she had taken to following Greyson around, happy to watch him while he sunbathed at the pool, content to sit a few meters away while he studied in the garden, satisfied to gaze at him while he ate whatever quick snack he had mooched off her mother. Surprisingly, Greyson had allowed that to go on for a couple of unhealthy years before seemingly getting sick of her. Which had led to the lowest, most humiliating point of her relationship with him. She could still hear the disgust in his voice when he’d flat out called her creepy and commanded her to stop “stalking” him.
She shook her head now at the ridiculous child she had been. Libby had left for culinary school four years after the boys had gone to college. She had set aside her childhood infatuation with Greyson Chapman and had instead focused on building a reputation as a pastry chef.
She had dreamed of opening her own dessert bar and had worked brutally long hours in the kitchens of some of the top restaurants in Paris, Rome, and London, striving to achieve that goal. Until eleven months ago, when all of that forward momentum had come to a grinding halt. Two months after meeting him again, she had found herself married and—as she would later discover—pregnant. Or maybe that was pregnant and married. She had never been entirely sure of the timing. But this little one had been born just over nine months after their rushed wedding.
Maybe Greyson felt trapped, forced into a life that he’d never really wanted. But he had pushed for the marriage. They had seen each other every night for two months after that rooftop party, and he had mentioned—sometimes practically demanded—marriage every single night of their “courtship.” If nearly two months of constant sex—and little else—could be considered a courtship.
Libby had finally caved because her infatuation had returned with a vengeance, and it had felt more intense with sex thrown into the mix. It had started to feel perilously close to love. And because he had made her feel so damned special, with his slavish attention to her every little need, both in bed and out, she had wondered if he was verging on feeling the same way about her.
She thought back to those first few months of marriage. Everything had seemed fine. She had been dazed by the speed of their nuptials, and they had been dealing with parental disapproval on both sides—the only one who had seemed truly happy for them was Harris. And despite her relative inexperience, the sex had been off the charts. Even though her entire life had been devoted to her craft, without much time for intimate relationships, Libby had known that what she had with Greyson was rare and uniquely intense.
When Libby had discovered that she was pregnant, she had thought they could actually make something of their marriage. It hadn’t been planned and had definitely put her career on hold, but Libby had been ecstatic at the thought of a baby.
Greyson had not been as thrilled.
But she had expected his attitude to change, soften perhaps, as her pregnancy advanced. Instead, he had retre
ated further and further from her. Leading to today. To this moment . . .
Where it appeared that her husband hated her.
And their baby.
He returned ten minutes later, by which time the baby had been fed and burped already. Libby was staring down at her beautiful daughter raptly when Greyson reentered the room. She looked up and held his eyes for a brief moment before allowing her gaze to travel over his face and body. There were circles under his deep-set, dark-blue eyes, giving his handsome face a gaunt appearance. He looked absolutely exhausted; his strong jaw was blue with stubble, and his thick, silky black hair stood up in tufts. He had clearly agitated it with his fingers, as he was wont to when he was stressed or tired. He was wearing a gray, pin-striped, Dior three-piece suit, but half of his pale-blue shirt hem was untucked and hanging over the front of his waistband, his tie was askew, and as she watched, he tugged his jacket off and threw it over the back of the visitor’s chair, rolling up his sleeves to reveal his tanned, corded forearms. She loved his arms and hands—they were so strong and capable. In the beginning, she had often lain wrapped in those arms, running her fingers over the veined ridges on his hands.
She couldn’t remember the last time she had done that. They hadn’t been that close or intimate in months.
His cool gaze dropped to the baby’s sleeping face.
“Would you like to hold her?” she asked, her voice low, and his eyes snapped up to hers. Something resembling horror roiled in those dark-blue depths.
“She’s asleep, I don’t want to disturb her.” The panic in his tone melted her heart—he was terrified. Greyson probably had the same reservations and doubts she had about being a good parent. Why hadn’t she realized that before? It was easier for her to adjust and to love this little stranger thrust so suddenly into their midst. She had carried the baby under her heart for months. Greyson hadn’t had that luxury. He probably just needed a chance to develop the same bond with his daughter.
“You won’t,” Libby reassured him gently, tilting the precious bundle toward him. “Meet your daughter, Greyson.”
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