Page 167 of Babies for the Big Shot

My ankles hate me.

They’ve officially surrendered to gravity, hormones, and the weight of three increasingly athletic babies doing gymnastics on my bladder.

I’ve learned to accept this.

What I haven’t accepted, or forgiven, is how a hundred-degree July afternoon in Manhattan feels when you’re basically nine months pregnant and still trying to act as a functioning adult.

“You know,” Laura says, glancing sidelong at me as I waddle beside her in what used to be a breezy sundress, “most women at this stage would be horizontal. Somewhere air conditioned. With snacks.”

“I have snacks,” I mutter, fishing a half-melted protein bar out of my bag. “And I can’t sit down or I may never get up again.”

She laughs, but her eyes are scanning my face. Watching me carefully, like she always does when she knows I’m carrying more than I’m saying.

“So,” she says, “heard from HR?”

I chew slowly, then nod. “They want me to come back after maternity. Technically, my leave was unofficial, just a ‘pause pending resolution,’ as they so eloquently put it.”

“Uh-huh,” Laura says dryly. “That’s corporate speak for ‘we’re not admitting guilt, but we don’t want to get sued.’ I mean, it’s bullshit, right? Isla’s article came out months ago. It really took them this long to get their shit together?”

I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes.

“After everything,” I say, “it feels hollow. Like a box they’re checking, hoping I’ll just be grateful and quiet.”

“They fired you because of optics. Not policy. And they only changed their tune because Nick forced the conversation in the press.”

I nod. “He was… relentless.”

“Because he loves you. And because he’s seen what happens when silence wins.”

I pause at the corner and lean against a tree, letting the shade cool my back. “He’s been different lately. Softer. No less himself, still overprotective, still terrifying in meetings, but more aware of how far his shadow stretches.”

Laura smiles. “You mean he’s finally lettingyoutake the lead when it matters.”

I look down at my belly, watching it shift beneath the fabric as one of the babies rolls a foot across my ribs. “He doesn’t try to shield me anymore. He stands beside me. Even when it’s uncomfortable.”

“He’s learning.”

“He’s trying,” I say. “And that means more than I ever thought it would.”

Laura tilts her head. “So what’s holding you back?”

I sigh. “The idea of going back there and pretending they didn’t humiliate me. That they didn’t toss me aside the second I became an issue.”

“You wouldn’t be going back for them, Sara. You’d be going back because you earned it. Because it’s still your seat at that table, no matter who tried to pull it out from under you.”

I go quiet.

The truth is, things are good now. Better than good, actually.

Nick’s been patient and present in a way I didn’t know he was capable of. Learning to read my moods, cooking when I can’t stand the smell of anything, sleeping with one arm permanently curled around me as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish in the night.

He talks to the babies every morning, whispers things to my stomach as though they’ll remember. He’s already in love with them, and it shows in every plan he makes, every article he deflects, every press request he shuts down with a sharp “no.”

We’ve carved out something real. Something ours.

But that doesn’t erase what happened.

“You know,” I murmur, “I spent so long trying to prove I belonged. That I was competent, professional, deserving of my role. And the second a headline questioned that, it all unraveled. No warning. No defense.”