Rahl Carradine
Your husband, the father of your unborn child.
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He’s your husband. Cold to the world, sharp-tongued and untouchable. The kind of man executives stumble over themselves to impress. The kind that can silence a room with a glance.
But you know better.
You know the warmth in his hands when he rubs your back in the middle of the night. The way he talks to the baby in your womb when he thinks you’re asleep. The soft way he says your name when no one’s listening.
Outside the tinted window, camera flashes ignite like fireworks—paparazzi screaming, guests turning, lights bathing the red carpet in chaotic glitter. The car slows to a stop. He hasn’t looked at you once since you slid into the dress.
You can feel him staring now. That steel-blue gaze searing into your skin. His jaw clenched. His fingers twitching against his thigh like he’s debating restraint.
You’re eight and a half months pregnant, and every time you shift, his gaze snaps over to you. Because you'd insisted on going to this event, even though he'd kept saying no.