Page 162 of The Billionaire's Redemption

A month passesbefore anything happens.

The police haven’t caught whoever it was that tried to run me over. My assailant seems to be lying low.

“Natalie, dear.”

I look up from my desk and see Helen Wilder entering my office with a smile, unwinding a cashmere scarf from around her neck and unbuttoning her long wool coat. “I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

I quickly get to my feet. “Of course not, Mrs. Wilder. Sit, please. Can I get you something?”

“No, no.” She shakes her head. “I was hoping we could get lunch together today. I already asked your dragon sitting upstairs.”

Hearing her refer to Ethan as my dragon makes me want to chuckle. “He’s just being protective after everything that happened.”

She smiles at me. “As he should be. And I see you have switched to a looser blouse. How about we go shopping for maternity clothes later? A woman should always have a sense of style, even if she is carrying a child. And I know the perfect place.”

“Mrs. Wilder?—”

“Helen,” she corrects me. “You’re family now. I won’t have any of this ‘Mrs. Wilder’ nonsense. I’m going to be very unhappy with you if you keep this up.”

I laugh lightly. “Fine. But I can only do lunch. I have some interviews to deal with after lunch.”

“Of course. Then I guess we should leave now to make our reservation.”

Her driver is waiting outside, and I grab my heavy winter coat from behind my office door, wrapping my scarf snugly around my neck. The December wind cuts through the Manhattan streets, and I'm grateful for the warm layers as I exit the building and find myself looking around nervously, scanning every corner and shadow.

I breathe a sigh of relief when I see no car racing towards me and no one idling on the curb.

“Are you getting in, dear?”

“Y-yes.”

I slide in, hoping for a quick and comfortable lunch.

The café Helen has picked is quiet and elegant—exactly what I expected from Ethan’s mother. It’s tucked into a quiet corner of downtown, with high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and pale gold tablecloths. Everything about it whispers money and restraint. It fits her. It doesn’t feel like me, but for her, I’ll pretend.

She orders tea. I order sparkling water. I can’t have coffee, and the thought of anything too rich makes my stomach turn. Even now, the scent of something buttery from the next table is making me queasy.

“You’re pale,” she notes gently, stirring her tea. “Still sick in the mornings?”

I nod. “Not just the mornings. Pretty much all day. Though it’s finally starting to ease up a bit now that I’m past the first trimester.”

She clicks her tongue sympathetically. “It’ll pass. For some of us, it takes a little longer, but it will. Once you’re through the second trimester, things get easier.”

Her voice is warm today, softer than I expected. I think I was braced for something colder—especially after all the headlines and the chaos surrounding my name. But this lunch? It’s... oddly normal. Comforting, even.

“I’ve started to show a little,” I say, laying a hand over mystomach instinctively. It’s not obvious yet—not unless someone’s looking closely. But it’s real. The change. The weight of it.

Helen’s expression shifts, something affectionate blooming in her sharp, poised features. “You’ll be beautiful. Pregnancy suits most women, especially strong ones.”

I try not to laugh at that. I don’t always feel strong.

We talk a little more about the baby, the nursery.

“Have you two started decorating?” she asks.

I give her a small smile. “I wouldn’t know where to begin. Aside from a crib, I don’t even know what a baby needs. We have our anatomy scan scheduled for next week though—Ethan’s more excited about finding out the gender than I am.”

It’s not like I can go to my mother for advice.