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He toyed with his wine glass for a second, staring into it like he thought it might give him better words.
Then he cleared his throat. “Why IVF?”
The question was soft. Not judgmental. But careful.
I blinked, caught off guard. “Why not?” I tossed back casually, but even I could hear the thinness in my voice.
Damian didn’t look away. “You just always seemed…” He trailed off, searching. “You know. Life of the party. Zero plans beyond the next art gala or tequila shot until recently, with your own art appraisal business.”
I leaned back in my seat, stretching slightly, letting the movement give me time to think.
He wasn’t wrong. Not completely.
“I can be both,” I said lightly. “The girl who wants to dance on a yacht at midnight... and the woman who maybe, someday, wants a kid to share her life with.”
He frowned a little. Not disapproving—just confused. “So... why now?”
I tapped my finger against the rim of my glass. “Gabrielle. She’s been trying for another baby. It's… complicated… the possible medical issues. Made me realize perhaps I’m not invincible either, especially since we are twins.”
He nodded slowly, absorbing that. His thumb traced the stem of his glass, restless.
“And you don’t want to do it the… conventional way?” His mouth quirked, like he hated how prudish he sounded.
I gave a short, dry laugh. “What? Let some guy knock me up and disappear after brunch?”
His mouth kicked into a reluctant smile, but there was tension in his shoulders now. As if he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure he had the right.
“I’m not opposed to love or marriage if it ever happens,” I said. “But I’m not betting my biology on a maybe.” I didn’t add,especially now,after seeing the clinic’s donor catalogue.
He shifted, drumming his fingers lightly against the leather tabletop. “And you haven’t picked a donor yet?”
I shook my head. “Still looking.” Still wondering if it would be wrong or right to pick the one whose childhood photo made my heart catch.
Still wondering if it was him.
Damian exhaled slowly, and the sound made my skin prickle. He wasn’t upset. Not exactly. But he was unsettled. I could feel it vibrating between us, low and warm.
“I don’t have to decide tonight, do I?” he asked, and the way he said it—half teasing, half serious—made my throat tighten.
I smiled and tipped my glass toward him. “Good news. I haven’t even had the tests yet. Technically, I don’t even know if I need a donor.”
His shoulders loosened just a fraction, but that small, unreadable smile stayed.
“Besides,” I added, swirling the wine in my glass. “If I had to decide tonight, I’d have to consult my magic eight ball. And I left it in my other purse.”
He huffed out a short laugh, shaking his head like he wasn’t sure if he was amused or exasperated.
The moment lightened—but not completely. Not where it counted.
Because the whole time he was sitting there, trying to play it cool, part of me was thinking—You could just ask him if it was indeed him in the donor catalogue. Right here. Right now.
But part of me was screaming—No. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The plane banked slightly, the stars outside shifting across the windows in a slow, dizzy sprawl toward some invisible horizon.
I looked at him—beautiful, complicated, maddening Damian—and wondered if either of us would be the same when we landed.
The engines’ whir deepened, and somewhere over the Atlantic, the cabin lights dimmed to a low, soft gold.