“This is about family,” he shot back, standing up. “My parents are family, too. They want to celebrate their grandson, and I want one damn night to feel normal again. To not be surrounded by hospital smells and talk of diaper changes. Is that too much to ask after everything I’ve given up for this?”
The phrase hit me like a physical blow. “Given up? What have you given up, Tristan?”
“Plenty,” he said, his voice rising now. “Two, my freedom, my social life. I’ve had to work twice as hard to prove I’m not just Amelia Sinclair’s husband. Do you have any idea what that’s like, to have everyone assume your success is handed to you?”
I looked at him. Truly looked at him. This man I’d loved, the man I’d chosen to be the father of my child.
He was standing in a hospital room, complaining about his ego while I held our newborn son. The absurdity, the sheer cruelty of it, stole my breath.
“Get out,” I whispered.
The fight draining out of me, replaced by a cold, hollow emptiness. He mistook my surrender for acquiescence.
The charming smile returned. “So, it settled? I’ll call for the car service.”
“You’ll be fine. I’ll be back before you know it.” He leaned over and kissed my forehead, a dry, prefuncter gesture.
Then his eyes fell on the set of keys on the bedside table. The keys to the brand new Bentley Continental GT I bought myself as a push present.
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