Page 11 of Escorting the Bodyguard (Hearts for Hire #4)

Gemma

It’s been a week since Ford walked away.

The first three days, I didn’t leave my bed. I’d just lie there staring at the ceiling, replaying that moment on the street corner over and over. How quickly he became a stranger. The sound of his footsteps walking away while I stood there, pregnant and alone.

I ignored Rae’s calls. Ignored Victoria’s texts. Lived on the sleeve of crackers I kept by my bed and told myself I’d deal with everything tomorrow. Then tomorrow. Then tomorrow.

But on day four, I couldn’t stand the silence in my head anymore.

That’s when I dragged myself to my sewing machine.

For the past few days, I’ve been cycling between creating and falling apart.

Stitching until my eyes blur with tears, then crying until I’m empty enough to pick up the needle again.

The rhythm of the machine is the only thing that stops my mind from spiraling—watch the needle move, guide the silk, focus on keeping the seams straight.

For twenty minutes, maybe an hour if I’m lucky, I can forget that Ford chose to abandon us.

Then exhaustion hits, or I think about how I’ll explain to our child that daddy chose not to stay, and I’m back on this couch sobbing until there’s nothing left.

The apartment looks like a luxury fabric store exploded.

Silk scraps cover every surface, my cutting table is buried under half-finished pieces, and thread spools have rolled under furniture I’m too exhausted to retrieve.

I’m still wearing the same leggings and oversized sweater from yesterday—or maybe the day before.

My hair is a greasy disaster, and I can’t remember the last time I ate.

But I have two completed lingerie sets and one half-finished bra to show for my breakdown, each piece more beautiful than anything I’ve ever made.

And my savings account is hemorrhaging money I don’t have while I sit here making beautiful things I can’t afford to create.

My phone sits on the coffee table next to cold tea and a tangle of measuring tape, Victoria’s number pulled up but not dialed.

I’ve been staring at it between crying jags for hours, knowing I need to make this call but unable to press the button that makes everything official.

Finally, I force myself to hit dial before I lose my nerve again.

Victoria answers on the first ring, like she always does. “Darling, how are you holding up?”

“I’m...” My voice cracks on the first word, and I clear my throat, hoarse from crying. “Victoria, I need to quit. I’m done escorting.”

There’s a pause, and I can practically hear the wheels turning in Victoria’s head. “Is this about Tim? Because I have excellent news on that front. He pled guilty this morning. Stalking and attempted kidnapping. Three to five years, plus a permanent restraining order. It’s over, Gemma.”

Relief floods through me so fast it makes me dizzy, and I feel fresh tears start. “He’s really?—”

“Locked up. For a long time.” There’s satisfaction in her voice. “You’re safe. I promise."

I press my eyes shut, long-held tension finally easing from my shoulders. But it doesn’t change what I need to tell her. “It’s not about Tim. I’m pregnant.”

The silence that follows feels endless. When Victoria speaks again, her voice is softer, warmer.

“Oh, darling. And the father?”

“It’s complicated.” My throat tightens, and I have to swallow hard to get the words out. “He’s not in the picture.”

“I see.” There’s ice in those two words now. Victoria has strong opinions about men who abandon pregnant women. “What a fool.”

Despite everything, I almost smile. Victoria’s loyalty is fierce and immediate. “It’s fine. I’m fine. But I can’t keep working. Not like this.”

“Of course not. You shouldn’t have to.” The business edge returns to her voice, but it’s layered with genuine concern. “What will you do now? Financially, I mean. Do you need help with?—”

“No.” I look around at the chaos surrounding me. “I’ll figure something out.”

“You always do,” Victoria says, and there’s real affection in her voice. “But if you need anything—a reference, connections, whatever—you call me. You’ve been one of my best girls, Gemma. I won’t forget that.”

After we hang up, I sit in the quiet of my living room, processing.

Tim is gone. Really gone. The threat that started this whole nightmare is over, and I should feel nothing but relief.

Instead, all I can think about is Ford’s face when I told him about the baby. The way he went completely cold, like someone had flipped a switch and turned off everything human in him.

See? This is what happens when you get too comfortable, when you stop trying. Men can smell desperation, Gemma. They can sense when you’re damaged goods.

The voice slips into my head before I can stop it. My mother’s voice, as clear as if she were sitting right next to me. The same words she used to whisper when my father’s calls became less frequent, when his promises started feeling empty.

If we were thinner, prettier, easier to love. If we didn’t need so much. If we were the kind of women men fight for instead of run from.

My chest constricts, that familiar shame flooding my veins like poison. I can feel myself becoming desperate to be better, shinier, more worth keeping, just like I did at twelve when Dad’s weekend visits became monthly. Then never.

I sit there for a moment, letting the thoughts circle and bite. The same ugly loop I’ve been stuck in since Ford walked away.

But then my hand moves, almost without conscious thought, to rest flat against my stomach. And something fierce and protective rises in my chest, cutting through the shame with startling clarity.

No. The thought is sharp, certain. Not this time.

I won’t let her poison this. Won’t let decades of conditional love touch this perfect, innocent life growing inside me.

This baby doesn’t care that I’m not perfect. Doesn’t care that my hair gets messy or that I make mistakes or that I’m not always put together. This tiny life inside me just... is. And already, fiercely and completely, mine to love.

My mother made me believe I had to earn everything. Love, attention, the right to stay. But this baby will know it’s wanted just because it exists. That love isn’t something you have to perform for.

For the first time in my life, I tell my mother’s voice to shut up. And remarkably, impossibly, it does.

I take a shaky breath, feeling something shift inside me. Not fixed. Not even close. But maybe the tiniest bit stronger. Like I remembered I have a spine.

Pounding on my door interrupts my revelation. Three sharp knocks that could wake the dead.

“Gem, open up. I know you’re in there.”

Rae—another escort at Elite, and possibly my loudest, most loyal friend—of course it’s her.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror and wince. A couple weeks ago, I would have died before letting anyone see me this undone. Now I don’t have the energy to hide.

I open the door to find Rae in full regalia—vintage fuchsia coat, platform boots, winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass. She takes one look at me, and her expression shifts from annoyed to genuinely worried.

“Jesus Christ, you look like hell. When’s the last time you washed your hair? Or ate actual food?”

Subtle, as always.

“I just got off the phone with Victoria,” I say instead of answering, stepping aside to let her in. “Tim pled guilty. Three to five years.”

“Good. I hope he rots.” She pushes past me, then stops dead when she sees the state of my living room. “What the hell happened here? It’s like Project Runway threw up in your apartment.”

I sink back onto my couch, suddenly exhausted again. The brief moment of clarity is fading, leaving me feeling wrung out and fragile. “I quit.”

“Quit what? Cleaning?” She kicks a tangled mess of ribbons out of her way. “Because that’s obvious.”

“Elite Companions. I’m done escorting.”

That stops her cold. Rae stares at me for a long moment, then slowly sets down her purse. “Why?”

So I tell her. Everything. Ford, the safehouse, how close we got, the pregnancy, his complete shutdown and disappearance. By the time I’m finished, Rae looks like she wants to hunt Ford down and make him pay in very creative ways.

“That absolute piece of shit,” she snarls, pacing around my coffee table.

“Who abandons a woman when she tells him she’s pregnant?

Especially a goddess like you!” She stops and throws her hands up.

“This is exactly why I refuse to date younger guys—they run the second things get real. What kind of coward?—”

“Rae.” My voice is quiet but firm. “He’s gone. Screaming about it won’t bring him back.”

She stops pacing and really looks at me. “Do you want him back?”

The question hangs in the air. “I don’t know.” But even as I say it, I know it’s more complicated than that. “Maybe I did. But not like this. Not after he walked away when I needed him most. He made his choice.”

“Fuck his choice. And fuck him for making you think you weren’t worth staying for.” She sits down beside me, some of her anger giving way to concern. “So what’s the plan? Baby, money, life, how are we handling this shitstorm?”

I shrug, my mind a mess of questions with no answers. “Figure it out. I always do.”

Rae is quiet for a moment, absorbing everything I’ve just told her. Then her attention shifts to the lingerie scattered around my apartment. She gets up slowly, moving toward the emerald green bra I finished this morning.

“Holy shit, Gem. Did you make this?”

“Yeah.” I watch her turn the piece over in her hands, studying the delicate detailing.

“This is stunning,” Rae says, her voice filled with genuine awe. “I’ve spent a fortune on lingerie over the years, and this feels better than anything in my drawer. The silk, the way it’s put together... This is La Perla-level stuff. Hell, this is better than La Perla.”

“It’s just a hobby?—”

“This is not a hobby.” Her voice is sharp with excitement. “This is fucking art.” She moves to examine a matching pair of panties draped over my sewing machine, then a black lace teddy hanging over the back of my chair. “Wait. You made all of this? In the past few days?”

“I needed to keep my hands busy.”

“So you’ve been making runway-quality lingerie while your world imploded?” She’s moving around my apartment now like she’s in a gallery, examining my work with growing amazement. “Gem, your breakdown sewing has produced some seriously professional-level work.”

Before I can protest, she’s pulling out her phone.

“Would you make some pieces for me?”

I blink at her. “I mean... maybe? I haven’t really?—”

“Are you taking orders?” she barrels on. “Because I need this quality in my life.”

“Rae, you’re just being?—”

“I’m being smart.” She cuts me off with a wave of her hand, still holding her phone like a weapon. “This is incredible work.”

She snaps a photo of the green set. “I’m texting this to Aria. You remember her from Elite? She’s always complaining about how hard it is to find good lingerie that actually fits.”

Rae’s phone buzzes thirty seconds later. She grins and shows me the screen—a reply from Aria: WHO MADE THIS AND HOW DO I GET ONE???

Rae grins at me triumphantly. “See? You’ve got your first two customers.”

“Rae, stop.” I reach for the bra, suddenly panicked.

“This isn’t a legitimate business. It’s just me coping badly with a sewing machine.

I was going out of my mind and needed something to do with my hands.

This isn’t... I can’t just suddenly become a lingerie designer because I made a few pieces while falling apart. ”

“A few pieces?” Rae gestures around my disaster of an apartment. “Gemma, look. You’ve got inventory, you’ve got demand, you’ve got talent. What more do you need?”

I watch Rae’s face, the absolute certainty in her expression. She’s not just being nice—she genuinely believes this could work. For the first time in days, something that isn’t exhaustion or heartbreak stirs in my soul.

Hope.

“I don’t know how to run a business,” I say quietly.

“You don’t know how to run a business yet ,” Rae corrects. “But you know how to create things that make women feel beautiful. And that’s the hard part.”

After Rae leaves—with measurements for three custom pieces and a deposit that makes my head spin—I sit alone in my apartment again. But this time, the silence doesn’t feel heavy. It feels... expectant.

I make myself a real dinner for the first time in a week. Pasta with chicken and actual vegetables, a glass of milk because apparently calcium’s important now. While I eat, I make a list on the back of an envelope:

Doctor’s appointment

Prenatal vitamins

Turn spare room into studio

Business plan

New life

The practical stuff. The things I can control.

But as I sit there in the quiet, my mind inevitably drifts to the things I can’t.

I think about Ford, wonder where he is, whether he’s sleeping. Whether he thinks about me. Whether he regrets walking away.

The ache in my chest hasn’t disappeared, but somehow there’s room for something else now too.

Grief and hope, I’m learning, don’t require me to choose between them.

I place both hands against my stomach, trying to imagine the life growing there. It’s too early to feel anything, but somehow, I swear I can sense it. This tiny spark of possibility that lives inside me, mine to protect.

Ford made his choice. Now I’m making mine.