Chapter 7 Seven

• My new room is bigger than my entire apartment. The bed alone could fit four people comfortably, with a white duvet so thick it looks like a cloud. Floor-to-ceiling windows open onto a private balcony overlooking manicured gardens. The bathroom has a tub I could swim in.
• It's beautiful and overwhelming and completely foreign to me.
• I sit on the edge of the bed, feeling small in this space that isn't mine, that will never be mine.
• A knock at the door startles me.
• "Come in," I call.
• A woman in a uniform enters. "Ms. Thompson, I'm Edith. I'll be attending to your needs during your stay."
• "My needs?"
• "Anything you require. Meals, laundry, drawing your bath. Mr. Romano has instructed us to ensure your comfort."
• "I can draw my own bath," I say, uncomfortable with the idea of being waited on.
• Edith nods politely. "As you wish. Dinner will be served at seven in the small dining room. Mr. Romano requests your company."
• After she leaves, I unpack my pitiful collection of belongings. My clothes look shabby hanging in the massive closet. I notice it's already half-filled with new garments in my size, tags still attached.
• I shower in the enormous bathroom, using fancy products that smell of lavender. By six-fifty, I'm dressed in one of the new outfits, a simple blue dress that fits perfectly. How did he know my size?
• I follow Edith's directions through the maze of hallways to the "small" dining room, which could easily seat twelve. Dante is already there, standing when I enter.
• "Ava. You look well." His eyes move over me briefly.
• "Thank you."
• He pulls out my chair. "How are you finding your accommodations?"
• "Excessive," I say honestly.
• He almost smiles. "You'll adjust."
• Servers appear with the first course, some kind of soup with a French name I can't pronounce. I watch Dante to see which spoon to use.
• "The pregnancy symptoms?" he asks. "Still severe?"
• "Better today."
• We eat in awkward silence for a few minutes. I feel his eyes on me but keep mine on my plate.
• "You're uncomfortable," he observes.
• "This isn't exactly my natural habitat."
• "What is your natural habitat?"
• I look up, surprised by his interest. "Small apartments. Diners. Places where people don't have staff to draw their baths."
• "You've never experienced luxury?"
• "Not like this."
• He considers me over his wine glass. "Tell me about your life before."
• "Why do you care?"
• "I'm curious about the woman carrying my child."
• Something in his phrasing bothers me, but I can't place it. "Not much to tell. I worked. I struggled. I took your offer."
• "Your parents? They died when you were young, I understand."
• My spoon freezes halfway to my mouth. "How do you know that?"
• "Background check."
• Of course. He investigated me before selecting me as his surrogate. And I said it at the clinic the first day, anyway.
• "I was thirteen," I say, setting down my spoon.
• "How?"
• The directness of his question startles me. "Murder. Home invasion."
• He doesn't offer sympathy, which I appreciate. Empty condolences fifteen years later would feel hollow.
• "That must have shaped you significantly," he says instead.
• "It did."
• The servers clear our plates and bring the main course. Dante watches me with unusual intensity.
• "What?" I ask, uncomfortable under his gaze.
• "You're resilient," he says. "Most people would break under what you've endured."
• His observation feels too personal, too accurate. I change the subject. "Tell me about yourself instead."
• To my surprise, he does. He speaks of growing up in Italy, his move to America, building his business empire. He has a dry sense of humor that emerges occasionally, making him seem more human.
• After dinner, he suggests a walk in the gardens. "The evening air will be good for you."
• Outside, the gardens are lit with subtle lighting. Fountains bubble softly. The air smells of roses and night-blooming jasmine.
• "This is beautiful," I admit.
• "I designed it myself." There's pride in his voice. "I find gardens restful."
• "You don't seem like someone who rests much."
• He looks at me, amusement in his eyes. "You're observant."
• "It doesn't take much observation to see you're driven."
• "And you? What drives you, Ava?"
• "Survival, mostly."
• He steps closer, his shoulder nearly touching mine as we walk. "There must be more than that."
• "Is there? Not everyone gets to chase dreams, Dante. Some of us just try to keep our heads above water."
• "And if you weren't drowning? What would you want then?"
• The question catches me off guard. What would I want if I had choices? It's been so long since I've thought beyond immediate needs.
• "Stability," I say finally. "A home that's actually mine. Work I don't hate. Simple things."
• He nods slowly. "Simple but elusive."
• "For people like me."
• "And what kind of person are you?" His voice is softer now, genuinely curious.
• "The kind without safety nets."
• We stop by a fountain. The moonlight catches the water droplets, making them shimmer.
• "Tell me about your time in foster care," he says abruptly.
• I turn to him, surprised. "How much of my life did your background check cover?"
• "Everything."
• "Then you already know about it."
• "I want to hear it from you."
• "Why?"
• He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is surprisingly intimate. "Because your experiences make you who you are."
• My heart beats faster at his touch. I step back, confused by my reaction.
• "Seven homes in five years," I say quickly. "Some good, some bad, none permanent. I aged out of the system at eighteen. End of story."
• "Not the end. Just the beginning." His eyes hold mine. "You survived. You built a life."
• "Not much of one."
• "Don't diminish what you've accomplished."
• His words warm something in me. No one has ever acknowledged how hard I've fought just to exist.
• "Thank you," I say quietly.
• We continue walking, closer now. His arm brushes mine occasionally. Each contact sends a small shock through me. This attraction is unwelcome, unwanted, but undeniable.
• "What about relationships?" he asks. "Anyone significant?"
• "Are we playing twenty questions?"
• "I'm interested."
• "In my dating history?"
• "In you."
• The way he says it makes my breath catch. I remind myself this is probably manipulation. He wants me comfortable, compliant. Yet part of me responds to his attention, starved for human connection.
• "No one serious," I answer finally. "Hard to build relationships when you're always one step from homelessness."
• "And now?"
• "Now I'm carrying your baby. Not exactly dating material."
• He stops walking, turning to face me. The moonlight casts shadows across his face, making him look both more mysterious and more human.
• "You underestimate yourself, Ava."
• For a moment, I think he might touch me again. I'm not sure if I want him to or not. But he simply gestures toward the house.
• "It's getting late. You should rest."
• I nod, suddenly aware of how tired I am. "Goodnight, Dante."
• "I'll see you for breakfast," he says. "Sleep well."
• As I lie in the enormous bed later, I replay our conversation. His interest in my past feels both flattering and suspicious. What does he really want from me? Just a healthy baby, or something more?
• And why do I care?
• I place my hand on my stomach, still flat but holding his child. A child that will never be mine.
• Yet here I am, falling asleep thinking not of the baby, but of Dante's eyes in the moonlight.