Page 121 of Hold Me Tight

Once I’m in the car, I pull up the address for Zane’s new high-rise he moved into not long after filming started for his reality show with Gigi.

I’ve never been there before.

When he visits with Nora, it’s always at my place. Occasionally, he’ll take her to the park or out for ice cream, but those visits are short-lived. He panics if she cries, gets flustered when she refuses to eat, and has absolutely no idea what to do when she’s overtired or clingy.

It doesn’t escape me that River is the exact opposite. He stepped into our lives with quiet confidence, responding to Nora’s needs as if he’s been doing it for years.

As if he enjoys it.

As if he always saw us as a package deal and never questioned if it was too much.

A lump forms in my throat as I pull out of the lot behind the bakery and merge into the slow crawl of mid-morning traffic.

It’s hard not to compare the two men.

Zane may be Nora’s biological father, but River’s been showing up for her in all the ways that matter.

Right now, what I need more than anything is clarity.

And the truth.

Twenty minutes later, I pull up in front of a sleek glass-and-steel high-rise a few blocks off Lakeshore Drive. I maneuver into a metered space and then sit for a moment, staring up at the modern facade. Gold-lettered signage glints in the sunlight, and two valets stand at attention in tailored coats, ready to open doors with gloved hands.

Even from here, it’s obvious this place is far beyond anything I could afford on my own. I grab my purse and step out of the SUV, nerves stretching taut with every step toward the entrance.

A doorman in a dark suit gives me a quick nod as I pass, his attention fixed on the cluster of photographers loitering just outside the revolving doors.

“Miss! Are you here for Gigi?”

“Is the wedding still on?”

“Can you confirm the pregnancy rumors?”

Their questions are fired off in rapid succession without time for a response.

I duck my head and push through the glass doors, the noise trailing behind me like static I can’t quite shake.

Inside, the lobby is stunning. Marble floors gleam beneath my shoes, polished to the point where they reflect every light and shadow. Navy velvet chairs are arranged in perfect symmetry around low, brass-trimmed tables stacked with glossy magazines I doubt anyone actually reads. Above it all, a massive chandelier drips from the ceiling like glass rain, refracting light in a thousand directions.

It’s the kind of space that feels curated. As I move across the lobby, I pass two staff members standing behind the concierge desk.

One mutters, “These reality TV people are a nightmare. Why did the board approve their application?”

“Don’t get me started,” the other replies. “There’s a camera crew coming again this afternoon. Third time this week.”

Their voices trail off as I keep walking.

I half-expect to be stopped, questioned, or redirected. But one of the photographers from outside manages to slip in behind another guest, and security rushes to deal with him.

The moment buys me enough time to step into the elevator and press the button for the fifteenth floor. My fingers tremble as they leave the panel, and the doors close with a barely audible whoosh. The car begins its smooth, soundless ascent.

In the mirrored walls, my reflection stares back at me with shoulders that are squared, eyes that are sharp, and a mouth set in a firm line. Determination wars with dread on my face, and I’m not entirely sure which one is winning.

Once the elevator glides to a stop, the doors open to a hallway wrapped in quiet luxury. Plush carpeting muffles my footsteps as dark-paneled walls glow under muted, recessed lights. Everything about this place radiates exclusivity and power.

It’s a far cry from the modest apartment Zane used to rent.

This isn’t merely a different address, it’s a different world.