Chapter 5

Harry gave me a once-over, his eyes lingering on my belly for a moment. Then, with a blank expression, he walked in and dropped the woven bag on the floor.

"Your mom sent me," he said, his voice low and clipped, with that military brevity. "She said you're pregnant and she's worried about you being alone in Esodon, so she asked me to come take care of you."

"Take care of me?" I glanced at his soldier's physique, then at the woven bag in his hand. "Harry, are you here to babysit me or carry out a mission?"

"Same thing," he said, pulling out one item after another from the bag. There were jars of homemade jam, a block of aged cheddar, artisan olive tapenade, cured prosciutto, fresh sourdough, a thick wool blanket, a hot water bottle, and three pairs of thermal socks.

Seeing that pile, my nose tingled with emotion.

Harry quoted, deadpan, "Your mom said you've always hated the cold, and since you're pregnant, you can't use an electric blanket, so she wants you to use the hot water bottle.

"She also said you should cut back on takeout. Her homemade jam will help with your appetite, but don't overdo it. Too much sugar isn't good for you."

I sniffled, about to say something sentimental, when Harry pulled out one last thing from the bottom of the bag.

It was a cleaver.

"What's with the cleaver, Harry?" I asked.

"To cook for you," Harry replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Your knife's so dull, cutting meat is a nightmare."

Alright, then.

And just like that, Harry moved in with me.

He turned my 300-square-foot living room into a military barracks. Blankets folded into tight, military-style squares, shoes lined up perfectly, even the tissue box had to be squared with the edge of the coffee table.

"Harry, this is my home, not boot camp," I said.

"It's a habit. Can't help it," he replied.

I said, "At least put the cleaver away. Don't stash it under your pillow."

Harry replied, "It's just a habit. Can't change it."

I gave up arguing.

Having Harry around seriously improved my life. He would be up at six every morning, making breakfast like oatmeal, scrambled eggs, and a simple avocado toast, all perfectly balanced like something prepared for an expectant mother.

Then he would head out for groceries and come back to cook lunch. In the afternoons, he would be doing push-ups in the living room until I finally called out, "Harry, I'm hungry."

Whenever I was sketching, Harry would be right next to me, quietly polishing his military boots until they were so shiny you could see your face in them.

One night, I was working late on a design, and when I finally looked up, Harry was still on the couch, reading a book.

I leaned over, and it turned out to be "The New Dad's Guide."

"Harry!" I snatched the book from him. "Why are you reading this?"

Harry didn't even blink. "Learning."

I said, "Why are you reading that? It's not like you're the dad."

"I'm the baby's uncle," Harry replied, dead serious. "Uncles are elders too, gotta step up and take responsibility."

Staring at his solemn face, I suddenly felt there really were people out there who genuinely cared about me.

Even though Nicholas didn't love me, I still have Mom, Harry, and Little Bean.

That was enough. More than enough.

"Harry," I said, leaning against his shoulder. "Thank you."

Harry stiffened for a second. He was never big on physical contact, but he didn't push me away. Instead, he awkwardly patted my head and said, "Don't get all sentimental. Go to bed."

"Harry, could you go a little easier with the head pats? My neck's about to snap," I complained.

"Sorry," he muttered.

*****

Days kept rolling by. I thought Nicholas would give up after I sent back the settlement letter, but I was wrong again.

Two weeks later, Sharon, my ex-mother-in-law, called me.

I didn't want to answer, but she kept blowing up my phone, call after call, like some relentless spam bot.

I finally picked up, and before I could even say anything, Sharon's elegant yet authoritative voice came through. "Clara, I heard you're pregnant?"

I replied politely, "Hello, Mrs. Hayden. Yes."

"Is the baby Nicholas's?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied.

There was a brief silence on the other end, then she said something that made my blood boil.

"Clara, name your price," Sharon said.

I gripped my phone tighter. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, how much would it take for you to give up the baby?" Her voice was calm, like she was negotiating a business deal. "I know your finances aren't great, and raising a child alone is tough.

"The Hayden family is willing to give you a sum of money, enough for you to start over. Take the money, go wherever you please, and from then on, the child has nothing to do with you."

I couldn't help but laugh.

"So, Mrs. Hayden, what do you think my price is?" I asked.

"Name your price," Sharon replied.

"30 million dollars," I said.

"Clara, I'm serious," she said.