Chapter 10 Ten

• "This is the room," Dante says, pushing open the door. The space is large and empty, with tall windows letting in streams of morning light. White walls, hardwood floors, high ceilings. A blank canvas.
• My hand rests on my rounded belly. I haven't gained much weight due to the build of my body, but my belly is now more visible under my dress.
• A strange feeling comes over me as I look around the room where Dante's baby, not mine, will sleep and live out his first years.
• "It's beautiful," I say. "All this natural light is perfect for a nursery."
• "I thought so too." Dante walks to the center of the room. "I wanted your input before finalizing anything."
• "My input?" I'm surprised. "Why?"
• He turns to face me. "You have good taste. And you're carrying the child. Your perspective matters."
• I step further into the room, trying to ignore the twinge in my chest. In four more months, I'll deliver this baby and walk away. Yet here I am, being asked to help design its future.
• "What colors were you thinking?" I ask.
• "I'm not sure." He gestures to several paint samples on a small table. "I've narrowed it down to these options."
• I examine the samples. Soft blues, gentle greens, warm yellows. Nothing pink or blue specifically.
• "You're not waiting to find out the gender?"
• "Colors don't need to be gendered." He stands beside me, our shoulders almost touching. "What do you think?"
• I point to a soft sage green. "This one. It's calming but not boring. Good for any gender."
• He nods, looking pleased. "I was leaning toward that one too."
• "Really?" I smile despite myself. "I would have guessed you'd choose something more traditional."
• "I had a blue room as a child," he says, his voice softening. "Navy blue walls with constellations painted on the ceiling."
• "That sounds beautiful."
• "My mother designed it." His expression grows distant. "She loved the stars. Said they reminded her that even in darkness, there's light."
• I've never heard him speak of his family before. "She sounds wise."
• "She was." He clears his throat. "Before she died."
• "I'm sorry."
• "It was a long time ago." He moves to the window, looking out. "I was ten. My father became... different after she was gone. Harder. More demanding."
• I don't know what to say. This glimpse into his past feels precious, rare.
• "I want my son or daughter to have a childhood filled with warmth," he continues. "With beauty. With the freedom to explore."
• "Freedom?" The word slips out before I can stop it.
• He turns, his eyes questioning. "You sound surprised."
• "It's just..." I hesitate. "You seem to have very specific plans for this baby."
• "Of course I do. Education at the finest schools. Language lessons from an early age. Music, art, sports. Everything needed to continue the Romano legacy."
• There it is. The control beneath the warmth.
• "What if they don't want that?" I ask quietly.
• His expression hardens slightly. "Every child needs guidance. Structure. A clear path."
• "And if they choose a different path?"
• "They'll be a Romano." He says it like that explains everything. "The family name comes with responsibilities. Expectations."
• I look away, resting my hand on my stomach. The baby kicks, as if responding to the tension in my voice.
• "Let's get started," Dante says, changing the subject. "The paint and supplies are here. The furniture arrives tomorrow."
• We spend the afternoon transforming the room. Dante, surprisingly, insists on doing the work himself rather than calling in staff. He rolls up his sleeves and applies primer to the walls while I arrange drop cloths and organize supplies.
• As the day progresses, the tension eases. We work side by side, talking occasionally, but mostly in comfortable silence. I'm struck by how normal it feels. Just two people preparing for a baby.
• Except it's not our baby. It's his.
• "Can you hand me that brush?" Dante asks, pointing to a wider paintbrush on the table.
• I reach for it at the same time he does. Our hands touch, fingers overlapping. A jolt of electricity runs up my arm. We both freeze.
• His eyes meet mine. For a moment, neither of us moves. His hand is warm on mine, strong and steady. I should pull away. I don't.
• "Ava," he says softly, just my name, nothing more.
• I manage a small smile, trying to mask the sudden flutter in my chest. "Yes?"
• "Thank you for helping with all of this," he says, his voice sincere. "It means a lot."
• "Of course," I reply, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm glad to be here."
• Then the spell breaks. He takes the brush, our hands separating. The moment passes, but the memory of his touch lingers.
• By evening, the walls are painted a soft sage green. We stand back, admiring our work.
• "It's perfect," I say.
• "Yes, it is," he agrees.
• But he's looking at me, not the walls.