Page 231 of The Marriage Clause

"I'm pregnant."

Everything stops. I stare at her.

Pregnant.

My child.

Our child.

And the first thing out of my mouth — because I am exactly who she thinks I am — is, "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Pain flashes across her face. Not because of the question. Because she expected it.

"Because I needed to know that you came here for me," she says quietly. "Not because the baby made it your responsibility."

I step into her space immediately. Both hands on her face.

"I do love you."

"I know that now."

"No. Listen to me." I hold her gaze. "I loved you before this. Before France. Before any of it. And I would have gotten on that damn plane whether you were pregnant or not."

Her eyes close for one second.

When they open, something in them has finally settled.

I press my forehead to hers.

"We're not going home," I say.

She blinks. "What?"

"I'm serious." I pull back enough to look at her. "We stay here. In France. You can paint. I'll figure out the rest. If we stay, maybe the trust doesn't get to touch this."

"Everett—"

"I'll find work. I'll build something. I don't care if it's elegant. I don't care if it's Kauffman enough."

She stares at me with an expression I can't read.

"You want to stay in France," she says slowly, "and start over."

"Yes."

"With no plan."

"I'll have one by morning."

"That is the most Everett Kauffman sentence anyone has ever spoken."

A laugh catches in my throat. Rough. Surprised. The first real one in weeks.

Then her hand slips to the ring still on her finger.

"You could take this," she says softly. "Use it. It would set us up."

I shake my head immediately.