Page 138 of The Billionaire's Redemption

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” I say darkly. “But till we know for sure, I want to keep an eye on Natalie at all times. I don’t want her going alone anywhere.”

“I could accompany her,” Jake says brightly.

“You just want to stick to her side so you can convince her to let you be the godfather. No. I’d rather trust Caleb with this.”

Jake snorts. “You really think she’s going to like being babysat?”

My lips curve as I think of my younger brother. “Caleb can be… persuasive. She seems to have a soft spot for him. I believe she’ll let him tag along. I’ll talk to him.”

There is no way I’m letting Natalie roam around alone while her life is in danger.

The store reeksof curated comfort. Polished wood. Handwoven rugs. There’s soft music playing in the background. But all I see is a battlefield of overpriced showpieces not fit for the woman beside me.

Natalie brushes her fingers along the edge of a cream settee before checking the specifications on its price tag, her brow furrowing in concentration.

“This is so unnecessary. We don’t need?—”

“It’s not about need,” I say, trailing her like a shadow. “It’s about replacing what hurts you.”

She gives me a look that could melt steel. “Ethan…”

“You said your back’s been killing you.”

“I’m pregnant, not ninety,” she retorts, tossing her hair back.

“And I’m a CEO, not a caveman. I know the difference.” I nod toward a steel-framed recliner. “That one’s orthopedic. Made with memory foam. Rated for prenatal lumbar strain.”

She stares at me, eyes widening slightly. “You researched pregnancy furniture?”

I shrug. “I research everything that touches you.”

She tries to hide the flush climbing her neck but fails. I allow myself a small moment of satisfaction as her cheeks turn a delightful shade of pink.

Mike Levy walks towards us. “Mr. Wilder. Is there anything I can help you two with?”

“We’re just looking,” Natalie says quickly.

Mike nods, shooting her a curious look.

Natalie wanders toward a curved loveseat—soft blush with gold piping. She sits, tentative, legs tucked to the side. I hate it instantly. It looks like it would crumble under a stiff breeze.

“That thing won’t survive your third trimester,” I tell her.

Her lips twist. “You’re impossible.”

I lower myself onto the couch beside her, letting my arm stretch out behind her. “I’m practical.”

Her body relaxes against me—slightly. She doesn’t always realize she’s doing it, but I do. I know every angle of her. Every micro-expression.

This is the most peaceful I’ve seen her all week.

Then I feel it.

That static buzz under my skin. The one I’ve spent years sharpening into instinct.

Eyes.

I scan the reflection on the boutique’s polished surfaces. Shelves. Mirrors. Glass. I can feel a pair of eyes on us. I quickly turn around and stare out the large display window. People are passing by, but I can’t seem to pinpoint anyone in particular.