Page 28 of His Orders

No more moping.

Tonight matters. I need to do this right.

Drew is going to overreact—he always does—but maybe if I soften the edges, ease him into it, the explosion won’t be nuclear. So I do the only thing I can think of. I go downstairs where the vegetables are already prepped and I cook. I clean. I pour every ounce of myself into herbs and spices and the quiet comfort of recipes that never betray me.

Cooking has always been my way back to balance. The chop of the knife. The heat of the pan. The way a sprig of thyme can make everything feel a little more manageable. I start with my signature lemon-herb roast chicken, crisping the skin to golden perfection while garlic simmers in olive oil on the side. Rosemary potatoes follow, then a butternut squash soup I season slowly, carefully, until it tastes warm enough to hold a secret. By the time I pull the last tray of roasted carrots from the oven, the kitchen smells like home—whatever that means these days.

Cassie is the first to arrive, as always, right on cue and holding a bottle of wine she probably picked for the label.

“Wow,” she says, stepping inside and giving an exaggerated sniff. “Okay, so you’re either panicking or trying to prove a point.”

“Can’t it be both?”

She arches a brow. “What’s going on, Ivy?”

I sigh. “I’m trying not to give Drew a heart attack.”

“Mm. Good luck with that.”

She flops down at the table and starts popping roasted carrots into her mouth like popcorn. I love her for it.

A few minutes later, Drew and Blair walk in together, Drew’s hand resting protectively at the small of his wife’s back. He pauses at the threshold, nose twitching like a bloodhound.

“You made that rosemary thing, didn’t you?”

“I made a lot of things.”

Blair gives me a warm hug, her perfume soft and floral, a subtle reminder that she’s the calm to Drew’s storm. “Everything smells incredible.”

“Hope you’re all hungry,” I say, even though I know they are. They always are when I cook.

We sit down to eat, the conversation light at first. Drew dives into the chicken like he hasn’t eaten in a week, and Cassie starts recounting some client disaster she handled like a pro. It’s almost normal. But my heart is a jackhammer, and when I finally put down my fork and clear my throat, the room goes stillin the way only family dinner tables do—like it knows a storm is about to hit.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” I say.

Cassie straightens. Blair nods encouragingly. Drew puts his fork down slowly.

I take a breath. “I’m pregnant.”

For a second, no one moves. Then Drew’s face drains of color.

“Come again?” he says, like maybe he heard me wrong and this can all still be undone.

“I’m eight weeks along,” I say gently. “I found out recently. I’m okay.”

“Okay?” he repeats, voice rising. “You’re pregnant, Ivy! Who—how—what the hell?”

Cassie lays a hand on his arm. “Easy.”

“No, I want to know who the hell got my sister pregnant and why he’s not sitting here with us!”

“I’m not ready to talk about that part yet,” I say, keeping my voice even. “The father isn’t in the picture. It’s complicated, and I’ll tell you when I can, but right now, I just need you to trust me.”

Drew glares at me, then at the table, then at Cassie who gives him a look that saysbehave.

“Ivy’s not a kid,” Cassie says. “She didn’t do this lightly.”

Blair speaks for the first time, her voice soft but firm. “You’ve always said Ivy could handle herself, Drew. Let her do that now.”

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