After the bookshop, I figured it was time to eat. She hadn’t said much about food, but I knew better than to wait until she crashed to do something about it. Our driver took us to a restaurant I’d reserved days before. The restaurant was a candlelit high-rise, designed to draw attention away from the steep prices with its stunning view. As soon as we exited the elevator, I anticipated her eye roll, and she didn't disappoint.
“You know I would’ve been fine with a bistro and a glass of wine,” she said as the maître d’ led us to a private table near the window.
“You passed on wine all day,” I reminded her, pulling her chair out. “Figured I’d make up for it with the view.”
The Eiffel Tower sparkled in the distance, and Paris moved below us like a slow heartbeat, soft, steady, unaware of the quiet war still sitting in the space between us. Tatum adjusted her napkin, scanned the menu without much interest, and kept her hands in her lap like she was trying to keep them still.
I leaned forward, setting the wine list aside. “What are you in the mood for?” I asked, keeping my voice low so only she could hear it. “Seafood? Pasta? I can order for both of us if you’re not sure.”
Tatum didn’t answer right away. Instead, she glanced down at the menu like the words were swimming and nothingwas sticking. Her fingers curled around the edge, knuckles as pale as her face. Before she could respond, a waiter glided past our table carrying two trays.
The first held a rare steak, the meat still red and bleeding at the center. The second was covered in something drowning in garlic, maybe escargot or lamb. I didn’t know, but the scent hit hard and fast.
Tatum froze in place, her eyes locked in an unblinking stare. Color drained from her face, leaving it pale, while her throat moved up and down as if she were struggling to force something down.
“Tatum,” I said quietly, reaching for her hand, but she pushed her chair back so fast it scraped the floor.
Her napkin slipped from her lap as she slapped a palm over her mouth and stood, her chair rocking slightly behind her. Without a word, she turned and hurried off, making her way toward the restrooms.
The waiter paused mid-stride, glancing between me and the tray in his hands. I gave him a small shake of my head, and he moved on.
I watched the bathroom door swing shut behind her, and my jaw set so hard my molars ached. The truth was, I'd known Tatum was pregnant for days. Weeks, maybe, but seeing her face at that last second made it impossible to ignore the signs any longer.
She was pregnant. My wife—the Don, the bedrock of our family, was carrying a secret inside her, and it was mine. Correction: she was carrying two secrets, because the fact that she hadn’t told me was its own special betrayal.
Anger started up in my gut and rippled outward, cold and mean. I didn't mind becoming a father. What pissed me off was that she thought she could hide anything from me. It wasdisrespectful as hell. We were supposed to be partners. If she didn’t trust me with this, what else was she holding back?
I sat there, turning the stem of my glass in slow circles, thinking about the script I’d rehearsed for weeks. I’d planned this whole trip so we could talk through the Felicity situation. The arranged marriage was her brother’s dumbass power play, but it was part of our peace treaty that had to happen, and soon.
I had planned to lay it out with receipts and context. Let her yell, cry, and break a glass over my head if she needed to get the steam off. However, none of that mattered now. If Tatum’s pregnant, I was playing chess while she was writing a whole new game. This shit couldn’t be real.
Tatum stayed gone for almost ten minutes. When she came out, she walked straight past our table to the window, putting her back to me. She didn’t say anything, just stood there, hands braced on the sill, breathing slow and deep.
“I don’t feel good. It’s time to go. I need to lie down.”
She didn’t wait for my answer. Just turned on her heels, walked right past me, and headed for the lifts.
I tossed my napkin onto the table and followed, anger throttling down out of sheer confusion. Outside, Paris was blue-black and beaming, the night heavy with car horns and laughter and the clink of sidewalk café glasses. Tatum tore ahead of me, her long legs eating the distance, her face composed again. She was pulling her mask back on, piece by piece.
The car service was parked at the curb, ready for us. Tatum swiftly opened the door herself and settled into the back seat, pressing close to the window. After I climbed in next to her, the driver took off.
The hotel was only ten minutes from the restaurant, but the car ride felt longer. Tatum didn’t say shit to me, and I damn sure didn’t say anything to her. She rested her head against thewindow, eyes closed, and stayed like that until we arrived at our destination.
When we arrived, the elevator to our room was private, and the suite waited at the top of the tower. It was quiet, expansive, draped in low, golden lighting and blackout curtains that muffled the city beyond the windows.
Tatum walked in first, slipping her heels off by the door and heading straight for the bedroom. “I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.”
“Nah. Hold the fuck up,” I said, grabbing her arm before she made it out of the living room.
She paused, back turned, breathing heavily as I reached into the shopping bag I’d snatched off the bar and pulled out a few tests.
“You’re not going in there until you pee on these sticks.”
Tatum turned slowly, her eyes narrowing the second she saw what I was holding.
“Naeem, please leave me the hell alone.” She brought her hands together, as if praying for patience, not grace.
“It’s six tests in this bag,” I said, holding it up. “And you’re gonna pee on every single one of them tonight.”
