Thursday morning brings the kind of nausea that makes Mia wonder if the baby is protesting the upcoming gala.
She makes it to the bathroom just in time, Alexander appearing moments later with water and saltines. This has become their routine—her morning sickness, his quiet support, neither commenting on how domestic it's become.
"You don't have to go today," Alexander says, sitting on the bathroom floor beside her. "We can postpone the fitting. Skip the gala entirely if it's too much."
"And let Eleanor down? She'd never forgive me."
"I don't care if she forgives you. I care if you're okay." His hand rubs circles on her back. "The gala isn't worth making yourself sick over."
"I'm already sick. Pregnancy, remember?" Mia manages a weak smile. "Besides, I want to see the dress. Grace has been sending me teaser photos all week. It looks incredible."
Alexander's phone buzzes. He glances at it, frowns.
"What?" Mia asks.
"Article. Another one." He hesitates. "You don't need to read it."
"Show me."
He does, reluctantly.
The headline makes Mia's stomach drop further: **"From Foster Care to Fortune: Is Mia Kane Living a Fairy Tale or a Con?"**
The article is brutal. It traces her entire history—every foster home, every rejection, her struggling art career, her menial jobs. Then it juxtaposes that with Alexander's wealth, the sudden marriage, the convenient pregnancy.
*"Sources close to the Kane family suggest Alexander's hasty marriage may be less about love and more about damage control,"* the article reads. *"With a baby on the way and his mother's reputation to protect, did Alexander Kane marry Mia Chen out of obligation rather than affection?"*
There are quotes from "anonymous sources"—probably Victoria or her friends—speculating about Mia's motives, Alexander's judgment, whether the marriage will last past the two-year mark.
They know about the contract.
"How did they find out about the two-year term?" Mia's voice shakes.
"Leak somewhere. My lawyer's office, maybe. Or someone who saw the paperwork." Alexander's jaw tightens. "I'll find out who. They'll be dealt with."
"It doesn't matter. It's out there now. Everyone knows this is temporary."
"Not temporary. Renewable." Alexander takes her hands. "And what people think doesn't change what we know—this marriage is real. Legal. Valid. The terms are nobody's business."
"Tell that to the thousands of people reading this right now."
"Screw them." The vehemence surprises her. "Screw every single person who thinks they have the right to judge our choices. We're married. We're having a baby. We're figuring this out day by day. That's all that matters."
Mia wants to believe him. But the comments on the article are already flooding in, and none of them are kind.
*Two years? That's not a marriage, that's a business contract.*
*She's smart. Get paid for two years, walk away with millions.*
*He must be terrible in bed if she's already planning her exit.*
*Poor kid, growing up with parents who treat marriage like a transaction.*
That last one hits hardest. Their baby, already being pitied by strangers.
"I need to get dressed," Mia says, standing on shaky legs. "Grace is expecting me at eleven."
"Mia—"
"I'm fine. Really." She's not. "Let them write whatever they want. We know the truth."
But knowing the truth doesn't stop it from hurting.
---
Grace's studio is a controlled frenzy when Mia arrives.
Two assistants are steaming fabric. Another is sorting accessories. And Grace is at her cutting table, making minute adjustments to the most beautiful dress Mia has ever seen.
Emerald green silk, exactly as promised. Empire waist that will accommodate her growing bump. Off-shoulder neckline that's elegant without being revealing. And the way it catches the light—like liquid gemstones.
"Oh my god," Mia breathes.
Grace looks up, grins. "Right? I've outdone myself. Get over here. Let's see if it fits."
In the makeshift changing area, Mia strips down to her underwear. Her reflection shows what she's been avoiding—her body is changing. Breasts fuller. Hips wider. A definite bump that no amount of shapewear can hide anymore.
She's four months pregnant. It's becoming real.
Grace helps her into the dress. The silk is cool against her skin, sliding into place like it was made for her body. Which, technically, it was.
"Hold still," Grace says, adjusting the shoulders. "Let me see the full effect."
She spins Mia toward the mirror.
Mia barely recognizes herself.
The dress transforms her. Makes her look elegant, sophisticated, like she belongs in ballrooms and society pages. The emerald brings out the warm tones in her skin. The empire waist actually highlights her pregnancy bump rather than hiding it—a declaration instead of an apology.
"Grace," Mia's voice cracks. "This is perfect."
"I know." Grace is beaming. "You look like a queen. No—better. You look like yourself, but elevated. That's what good design does."
One of the assistants appears with shoe options. Simple heels, elegant without being ostentatious. Jewelry—borrowed pieces from a designer Grace knows. Everything comes together.
"The gala is tomorrow," Grace says, pinning one final adjustment. "Are you ready?"
"No. Absolutely not."
"Good. If you were ready, you'd be overconfident. Nervous means you care." Grace steps back. "Remember what I said—don't apologize for existing. You're Alexander Kane's wife. You're carrying his child. You have every right to be in that room."
"What if they hate me?"
"Then they hate you. So what?" Grace shrugs. "Mia, people are going to have opinions no matter what you do. Might as well give them something beautiful to be wrong about."
The fitting continues. Adjustments, measurements, instructions for tomorrow. Grace will have the dress delivered to the penthouse in the morning, fully steamed and ready.
"I can't thank you enough," Mia says when they're finally done.
"You can thank me by wearing this dress with confidence. And by telling everyone who made it." Grace hugs her tight. "You've got this. And when you start doubting yourself tomorrow—which you will—remember that you survived worse than a fancy party. You're tougher than all of them."
---
The penthouse feels empty when Mia returns.
Alexander is still at the office—some merger that requires his attention. A note on the counter says he'll be late, to eat without him, he's sorry.
Mia orders Thai food and eats alone, scrolling through her phone despite knowing she shouldn't.
More articles. More speculation. Someone found photos from her high school graduation—awkward, alone, no family there to celebrate. The contrast to Alexander's privileged upbringing is stark, emphasized in every comparison.
Her phone rings. Sophie.
"I saw the articles," Sophie says without preamble. "Are you okay?"
"Define okay."
"Mia—"
"I'm fine. Really. Just tired of being everyone's entertainment." Mia sets down her fork. "Did you know there's a betting pool? On how long the marriage lasts. Most people are betting less than a year."
"Those people are idiots."
"Or realists." Mia's laugh is hollow. "We did sign a two-year contract. Why should anyone expect it to last longer?"
"Because I've seen how Alexander looks at you. How you look at him. That's not contract behavior, babe. That's feelings."
"Feelings aren't enough. Not in his world."
"Then make your own world. Together." Sophie's voice gentles. "Tomorrow is going to be hard. But you're not alone. Alexander will be there. I'll be texting you encouragement all night. And when it's over, you'll have survived your first major society event. It gets easier from there."
"Does it?"
"I don't know. I'm lying to make you feel better."
Despite everything, Mia laughs. "Thanks for the honesty."
They talk for another hour. Wedding plans—Sophie and James are planning their one-year anniversary trip. Baby logistics—Mia hasn't even started thinking about nursery themes or baby names. Normal friend conversation that makes everything feel less overwhelming.
When they hang up, Mia feels slightly more human.
She's heading to bed when Alexander finally arrives home. It's past midnight. He looks exhausted, tie loosened, jacket over his arm.
"You're still up," he says, surprised.
"Couldn't sleep. How was the merger?"
"Tedious. Necessary. Done, thank god." He sets down his briefcase. "How was the fitting?"
"The dress is perfect. You'll see it tomorrow."
"I'm sure you'll be beautiful." He moves closer, studies her face. "You've been crying."
"No, I—" But there's no point lying. "The articles. The comments. The betting pools on when we'll divorce. It's a lot."
Alexander's expression darkens. "Betting pools?"
"Apparently we're very entertaining to strangers."
"I'm going to sue every publication that—"
"Don't." Mia touches his arm. "It won't help. It'll just confirm we're bothered. Better to ignore it."
"How am I supposed to ignore people making my wife cry?"
The protectiveness in his voice warms something in Mia's chest.
"By remembering they don't matter. We matter. This—" She gestures between them. "—whatever this is, it's ours. Not theirs."
Alexander's hands frame her face. "You're right. You're absolutely right. But Mia—I need you to know something."
"What?"
"That contract? The two-year term? I'm beginning to think it was the stupidest thing I've ever done."
Mia's heart stutters. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I wanted an exit strategy because I was terrified of failing. Of becoming my father. Of trapping you in something that hurt you." His thumbs brush her cheekbones. "But every day, I'm more certain that two years won't be enough. That walking away from you would be the real failure."
"Alexander—"
"I'm not asking you to feel the same. I'm not even asking you to stay past the contract. I'm just saying—" He swallows hard. "I'm saying that somewhere between contract signatures and morning sickness and arguing with my mother, this stopped being an arrangement. At least for me."
The admission hangs between them, vulnerable and terrifying.
"I'm scared," Mia whispers. "Of wanting this. Of believing in this. Every time I've wanted something, it's been taken away."
"I know. And I can't promise that won't happen. I can't promise we'll last forever or that I won't mess this up spectacularly." His forehead touches hers. "But I can promise I'm not planning to leave. I'm in this—really in this—for as long as you'll have me."
Tears spill over. Happy tears, scared tears, overwhelmed tears. "You're making this really complicated."
"Sorry. I'm terrible at simple."
"I know." Mia laughs through the tears. "It's kind of your thing."
Alexander kisses her—soft, sweet, questioning. Mia kisses back, answering. This is real. Whatever they're building, it's real.
When they pull apart, both breathless, Alexander rests his hand over her stomach. Their baby, growing between them.
"Tomorrow," he says. "We face them together. And we show them exactly what they're wrong about."
"What are they wrong about?"
"Everything. We're not a business arrangement. Not a cautionary tale. Not a scandal or a bet or entertainment." His eyes meet hers. "We're a family. And that's worth more than their opinions."
Family.
Mia's never had one of those. Not really.
Maybe it's time to start.
They go to bed together, wrapped around each other, the weight of tomorrow looming but manageable. Because they're facing it together.
One gala. One night. One chance to prove everyone wrong.
Mia falls asleep thinking maybe—just maybe—they will.