Chapter 132 – Zander
Despite the fact that Ivan is present in the media—posting, ranting, and laughing on his social accounts—he hasn't been photographed in months. My husband prefers it that way. He controls his image down to the last detail, and the less the Browns or Dorian get to weaponize, the better.
But right now? He's not controlling anything.
He's in front of the projector screen, face wet with tears, his shoulders shaking as if he's the one who just won.
I clear my throat at the doorway of our private theater, but he doesn't notice. His eyes are glued to the screen, where Harry stumbles through his acceptance speech, crying so hard he can barely get his words out.
Ivan turns at last, his face red, eyes glassy, and then beams at me like I just stepped into the sun.
"Look, look, Zander! He won!!!" He doesn't say it so much as scream it, voice breaking with excitement.
"I know," I say, amused as I stride over. "I know."
"He deserves it so much." His lips wobble, more tears spilling down.
"Yes, he does, my beautiful prince." I lower myself beside him, pulling him close.
Onscreen, Harry tries to thank his co-stars, but his words dissolve into broken sobs. The audience claps and laughs with him, indulgent and warm. Ivan clutches a pillow to his chest like he's part of the moment.
"You're messing up your make-up, stop crying," he scolds the screen through his own tears, hiccupping.
I laugh softly, brushing my thumb under his damp eye. He doesn't notice—too busy sniffling for Harry.
When the speech ends and Harry is ushered offstage, I finally stand, stretching out a hand. "It's time for a meal."
Ivan groans, dramatic, his body sagging into the cushions. "I don't wanna."
"You have to, my sweet, you're not eating for yourself alone anymore," I say, helping him to his feet.
He groans, pressing his face against my chest like he can hide there forever.
"I know, I know," he mumbles.
We found out he was pregnant two months ago and we were both dumbfounded—which is dumb, really, considering the amount of sex we have. Unprotected sex. All the time. Honestly, I don't know why either of us were so surprised.
He's three months along now. Somehow it still feels surreal.
Maybe because Ivan doesn't exactly act like the delicate, glowing image of an expecting spouse — he complains, he sulks, and yet he still rubs his stomach when he thinks I'm not looking.
And God help me, I've never loved him more.
Ivan rubs his stomach absentmindedly, still so small you wouldn't even notice, but the gesture twists something sharp in my chest. It's protective, primal. A part of me still can't believe it's real. My husband is carrying our child.
I tilt his chin up. His emerald eyes are still watery from crying over Harry's award, but now they soften, sheepish. "Stop looking at me like that," he says.
"Like what?"
"Like I hung the stars in the sky," he mutters, embarrassed.
I press my forehead to his. "You did, my love. And now you're carrying the sun too."
He snorts, then laughs through his tears. "You're ridiculous."
"Yes," I agree easily, "ridiculously in love with you. And ridiculously terrified you'll try to skip dinner again and faint in my arms."
"Would that be so bad?" he teases, batting his lashes.
I growl low in my throat, tightening my hold on him. "Ivan."
"Fine, fine, I'll eat. But only if you feed me," he says, smug, like he's won a battle.
"Gladly."