“No.” Theo spoke firmly, surprising everyone. “You need to rest. You’ve overdone it.”
His eyes held a warning that was both heart-warming and infuriating.
“I’m fine,” she said quietly.
“Imogen, think of the baby,” he pleaded, his eyes thick with some unknown grief as he implored her to be sensible and reasonable.
She wanted to argue, but not in front of her parents. “Fine,” she said with a terse nod.
His relief was palpable. His hands reached for her coat, sliding it from her, lingering on her shoulders for a moment as he bent down and said throatily, “Thank you.”
How could she be annoyed at him? She tilted her head, smiling up at him, and then moved back to her sofa, taking up the same position she’d occupied for the better part of a fortnight.
“Theo? Why don’t you show us the nursery?”
Imogen watched as her parents followed Theo down the hallway, a smile playing about her lips. She settled further down on the sofa, letting her eyes whisper shut for a moment.
Only Imogen was tired and given the enormous lunch they’d enjoyed, the warmth of Theo’s apartment, and the exhaustion that was seeping through her, it was impossible to stave off sleep.
And she dreamed of Theo and their baby. A vivid dream. A dream that filled her soul with pleasure. She dreamed of him holding the child and then – terror was in her throat – as he turned and walked away. She called to him, over and over, her voice a shriek that he didn’t hear. Or didn’t respond to. She watched him walk away, holding their child, and suddenly he wasn’t Theo.
She no longer recognized him.
*
The invitation arrived the next day, nestled in the midst of a heap of magazines for Imogen that Theo had insisted on placing subscriptions for. Addressed to Imogen, at first, she had no clue what it could be. Other than the folk at Condé Naste, who would possibly know that Imogen Harper was now living at Theo’s apartment?
Her finger slid beneath the thick white envelope, perforating it at the fold and reaching in to pull the card from within.
The presence of your company is required at a high tea to celebrate the impending arrival of the Trevalyen Heir.
Imogen burst out laughing, but it was a weary laugh, tinged with disbelief.
She waddled – there was no other word for it now – down the hallway, in search of Theo. He was in his home office, on a conference video call, but when Imogen hovered in his doorway, he cut it short.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, walking in and resting her hip on the edge of his desk. He frowned at the small gesture, his hand lifting to her rounded belly on autopilot.
“Everything okay?”
“I’m not sure.” She dropped the invitation in front of him, her lips twitching at the corners.
“The woman’s unstoppable,” he said with a roll of his eyes heavenward. “Want me to cancel it?”
“No,” Imogen shook her head. “It’s fine. It’s … sweet, I guess.”
“Your mother is sweet. Mine is… I’m not sure.”
“It’s fine,” Imogen reassured him. “It’s only a couple of hours.”
He nodded, but his face showed wariness. “I’ll come with you.”
“You’re not invited,” she pointed out, pressing her finger into the elegantly scrawled name at the top of the card. “Sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” he laughed. “You sure you can be bothered?”
“I am the mother of Heir Trevalyen,” Imogen pointed out with another suppressed giggle.
“Hell, I really hope your mother hasn’t got one of these. Your father would have kittens.”