Page 105

Cassie shifts in her sleep, murmuring something unintelligible. I lower the screen brightness, not wanting todisturb her. She needs rest, especially now. According to my research, the first trimester is when the baby's neural tube forms, when tiny organs begin developing, when everything is most vulnerable.
Vulnerable.
The word sits uncomfortably in my mind. I've spent a lifetime building structures and systems precisely to avoid vulnerability—in business, in relationships, in every aspect of my life. And now, there's this tiny, developing life that is nothing but vulnerability, utterly dependent on Cassie's body and, by extension, on me.
I place my hand gently over hers, feeling the warmth of her skin against mine. The gesture is unconsciously protective, though what exactly I think I'm protecting her from at 3 AM in her bedroom I couldn't say.
From everything, perhaps. From complications and morning sickness. From Camden's lingering presence. From Maxwell Grant's vendetta. From the career impact this pregnancy might have. From my own inevitable failings as a father.
Because I will fail. That much seems certain. How could I not, with the example I had?
I tab to a new page: "Breaking the Cycle: How Not to Parent Like Your Parents." The title alone makes my throat tighten.
I think of my father's cold disappointment when I brought home anything less than perfection. The way he treated grief as an indulgence, emotion as weakness. How he filled the empty space my mother's death left with more demands, more expectations, more criticism.
"I will not be like him," I whisper into the darkness, a promise to the child who doesn't yet have ears to hear it. "I won't."
Beside me, Cassie stirs, her eyes fluttering open.
"Roman?" she murmurs, voice thick with sleep. "What time is it?"
"Early," I say, closing the tablet and setting it aside. "Go back to sleep."
Instead, she props herself up on one elbow, squinting at me in the dim light. "You haven't been to sleep at all, have you?"
I don't bother denying it. "Just doing some research."
"At 3 AM?" She reaches for the tablet, and I let her take it. A small smile forms as she scrolls through my browser history. "From 'morning sickness remedies' to 'college savings plans' in one night. Impressive."
"I like to be thorough."
"You like to control what scares you," she corrects gently, setting the tablet on the nightstand. "But you can't research your way out of this one, Roman. No amount of preparation will make you ready."
"That's not very reassuring."
She smiles, fully awake now. "It's not meant to be. It's just true." She shifts closer, resting her head on my chest. "What's really keeping you up?"
I contemplate deflection, a habit so ingrained it's almost instinctive. But in the darkness, with her warm weight against me, the truth feels easier to access.
"I don't know how to be a father," I admit. "I have no reference point for what a good one looks like."
Her hand finds mine in the darkness, fingers intertwining. "Maybe that's an advantage. You're not trying to live up to some impossible standard. You get to define fatherhood on your own terms."
"Or repeat all my father's mistakes without realizing it."
"I won't let you," she says simply. "And you won't let me repeat my mother's—working herself to exhaustion, trying to be everything at once."
The mutual promise settles something in me. We are each other's safeguards, checks against our inherited patterns. There's unexpected comfort in that.
"We should sleep," I say, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You need rest."
"So do you. CEOs need sleep too, even ones with superhuman control issues."
I smile against her hair. "I'm working on it."
"I know you are." She settles against me, her breathing slowly evening out as she drifts back to sleep.
I lie awake a while longer, holding her, thinking about cycles broken and remade. Thinking about the person I need to become for this child, for Cassie. For myself.