Page 51 of His Untouchable Heart

Anthony

As soon as the door clicked shut behind Gabrielle, I poured another half cup of coffee and headed straight for my office—smiling like a man with a secret. It wasn’t the smug kind. It was something softer. Something that made my chest feel strangely light.

She didn’t know I saw it. The way her hands trembled when she reached for her purse. The way her voice wavered on the word “fresh air,” like it barely held itself together. She was paler than usual, moving slower, more carefully.

I might not have experienced being a father, but I wasn’t completely oblivious. I’d lived long enough to recognize when something was changing—and Gabrielle wasn’t just tired.

I settled into my chair, set the coffee aside, and opened my laptop. A second later, I was typing into the search bar.

First signs of pregnancy.

The list was unremarkable in its simplicity: nausea, fatigue, mood swings, dizziness. There it was—all of it. The past week suddenly organized itself like a puzzle clicking into place.

She hadn’t eaten much yesterday. Couldn’t finish her coffee this morning. That far-off look in her eyes whenever she thought I wasn’t watching.

I leaned back in my chair and exhaled, staring at the slow spin of the ceiling fan above me.

It hit me all at once. The quiet truth of it. If she was pregnant—if that faint look of unease she’d been wearing all morning had anything to do with it—then my entire life had just shifted a degree from center.

I didn’t panic.

Strangely, I didn’t feel fear.

I felt… drawn forward. Like I’d already stepped into the next chapter, all I had to do was catch up.

Would she want to keep it? Would she even tell me if she didn’t?

That thought stung more than I expected.

Gabrielle was fiercely independent. She protected herself with a quiet sort of grace. But this—this—wasn’t something I wanted her to carry alone.

I closed the laptop gently, set my elbows on the desk, and rubbed my hands together like I could warm the thought into something real.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was just stress, exhaustion, or the mess we were wading through with Curtain. And if it was, I’d let it go. I wasn’t going to pressure her. She’d tell me when she was ready.

But still… a small part of me, tucked somewhere under my ribs, already hoped.

And that was new.

After a while, the gallery’s back doorbell chimed with a soft ping that echoed through the hallway outside my office. A second later, I heard the shuffle of footsteps and someone calling, “You want me to get that, Mr. Moreau?”

I was already halfway out the door.

“No,” I said, glancing toward the security monitor in the hall. The camera feed flickered—then settled on Gabrielle standing at the loading dock entrance, sunlight caught in her hair, a smile on her face that did something to my chest.

“I’ve got this.”

I don’t remember crossing the gallery floor. One second, I was watching her through a grainy monitor. The next, I was stepping out into the warm Miami air, blinking at the brightness—and at her.

She was radiant.

Not in that cliché, glowy kind of way they talk about in books. But in the way someone looks when a weight has been lifted. Her shoulders were looser. Her smile real. She looked at me like she was finally breathing freely again.

“Hey. I’ve got news,” I said softly, moving toward her.

She opened her mouth to speak, but I didn’t give her the chance.

I stepped in close, set my hands gently on her shoulders, and said it—simple, quiet.

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