He kept his voice low. “Your choice.”
There it was again. A small offering placed carefully in front of her. No command. No pressure.
Megan studied him as if searching for the angle, the old habit of Bellamy men making decisions and expecting the world to applaud. She found none.
Finally, she said, “Fine. But if I see one reporter, one security detail, one person your mother knows—”
“You won’t,” Priya said.
Megan nodded, though Priya could not see it. “Then fine.”
After the call ended, Rowan finished feeding Ellis. The baby’s eyelids had begun to droop. A thin line of milk rested at the corner of his mouth. Rowan wiped it with his thumb, so gently it surprised him.
Megan watched.
“What?” he asked quietly.
“Nothing.”
But it was not nothing.
It was a memory passing between them: Rowan years ago, in their old kitchen, trying to rescue an injured bird that had struck the window. Megan had teased him then for being clumsy with fragile things. He had said, “I’m careful when it matters.”
