She has a new plan for herself this year. The year she turns twenty-eight.

She wanted it to be a milestone.

It’s the year she becomes a mother.

I tweak her nipple and turn my head to her stomach and I kiss it. She’s been sleeping like crazy, and I’ve never done more work from the bed than I have these past six months. Weekends are all about my wife lying around, recharging that simmering energy of hers, while she naps with her head on my thigh, listening to me do my thing.

She asked for a hit that first day on my terrace. But I was the one who got punched in the chest. The Carma uniform had never looked better.

I reach out for my pack at the memory, take out a cigarette, then remember I told her I’m quitting because she has. Not good for the baby, after all. I shove it back down and toss the pack way in the back of the nightstand drawer. I’m keeping my word. I’ll quit smoking. But I’m never quitting her.

Watching her walk away all those years ago has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Every instinct of mine demanded I chase after her, bring her back where she belongs—with me.

I opted to be patient. Give her space. Cross my i’s, dot my t’s—that’s the way I work, after all.

She’d have time to think, follow up on her plan.

Except she never counted on that plan encountering a glitch.

That’s right, her fucking Drake—Derek, Henrietto—is not waiting until she’s twenty-fucking-eight. I spent years playing the field, not interested, refusing to feel trapped.

I’m trapped and I’ve never felt so fucking free.

I love my lovely fucking infuriating girl.

I’m all in. Every day.

They say you’re never truly wealthy until you have something money can’t buy.

I wake up to that something every morning. Blonde hair, long lines, loving eyes. I’m the wealthiest man alive.