Updated Oct 1, 2025 • ~11 min read
Sienna decided to opt out of the circus.
No more charity galas. No more family dinners with hidden agendas. No more photographers camping outside, waiting for the next scandal.
Just—normal. Or as normal as life could be when you were twenty-nine weeks pregnant with a Cross heir and engaged to one of the city’s most eligible bachelors.
“I want to take a prenatal class,” she announced one morning over breakfast. “Like a normal person. With other normal pregnant people who aren’t involved in tabloid scandals.”
Damon looked up from his laptop. “You want to sit in a room with strangers and learn about breathing techniques?”
“Yes. I want to fold tiny onesies and practice labor positions and talk about breast pumps without anyone caring who the baby’s father is.”
“That sounds—” He stopped. “Actually, that sounds nice.”
“It does, right? Just—basic. Human. Real.” She pressed her hand to her stomach, felt the baby shift. “I’m tired of everything being a production. I just want to be pregnant. Normally pregnant.”
So they signed up for a six-week prenatal course at a community center in Brooklyn—far enough from their usual haunts that nobody recognized them immediately.
The first class was a revelation.
Eight couples, all due within weeks of each other, all dealing with the same anxieties about parenthood. Nobody cared that Sienna was a Cross now, or that her engagement had made headlines. They cared about whether she’d decided on cloth diapers versus disposable, and did she have a birth plan, and wasn’t the third trimester exhausting?
“This is amazing,” Sienna whispered to Damon as they practiced partner breathing techniques. “Nobody’s judging us.”
“That woman in the corner definitely recognized us,” Damon whispered back.
“Okay, fine. But she’s being polite about it. That’s progress.”
They learned about labor stages and pain management and newborn care. They practiced swaddling on dolls that looked nothing like real babies. They sat in a circle and shared fears—Sienna admitted she was terrified of not being a good enough mother, and a woman named Naomi admitted the same thing, and suddenly Sienna felt less alone than she had in months.
“You’re glowing,” Bianca observed when Sienna showed up for their weekly coffee date—a ritual they’d maintained despite everything. “Like, actually glowing. Not in a ‘pregnancy hormones’ way. In a ‘you’re happy’ way.”
“I am happy.” Sienna adjusted her position, trying to find comfort in the café chair. “We’ve been taking prenatal classes. Normal ones, with normal people. It’s been—grounding.”
“Look at you, embracing normalcy. Who are you and what have you done with my overachieving, scandal-prone best friend?”
“She’s taking a sabbatical. Turns out growing a human is a full-time job.” Sienna took a sip of her decaf coffee—still not the same as real coffee, but she was adjusting. “How’s work? Am I missing anything catastrophic?”
“Besides the fact that your absence has made everyone realize how much you actually did? Not much.” Bianca grinned. “Lucas’s replacement is fine, but she’s not you. The division misses you.”
“Lucas has a replacement?”
“Did I not mention that? He officially resigned last week. Sent a very professional email to the board, thanked everyone for the opportunity, said he’s pursuing other ventures.” Bianca’s expression sobered. “He’s really done, Sienna. Gone. Moved on.”
“Good. That’s—that’s what he needs.”
“Is it weird? That he just disappeared?”
“Yes and no. Weird that he’s gone, but also—relieving? Like we can all finally breathe without worrying about the next confrontation.” Sienna pressed her hand to her back, trying to ease the constant ache. “I hope he’s okay. Wherever he is.”
“He texted me last week, actually. Just checking in, asking how you were.”
“He did?”
“Don’t get that look. It wasn’t weird. Just—brotherly concern. He asked if you were healthy, if the baby was okay, if Damon was treating you right. Very mature, very distant.” Bianca stirred her coffee. “I think he really has moved on.”
“Then why does it feel like something’s unfinished?”
“Because you spent months living in crisis mode, and your brain doesn’t know how to process peace.” Bianca reached across the table, squeezed her hand. “This is good, Sienna. Boring is good. Normal is good. Embrace it.”
The nursery project became Sienna’s obsession.
Not a designer nursery with thousand-dollar cribs and celebrity-approved décor. A real nursery, assembled with her own hands, filled with things she’d chosen herself.
“I want to paint it,” she announced to Damon. “The spare room. Turn it into a nursery.”
“We can hire someone—”
“No. I want to do it. Well—you’ll have to help because I’m not climbing ladders at seven months pregnant. But I want it to be us. Our work. Not something money bought.”
So they spent a weekend transforming the spare room—pale blue walls (Damon’s choice), white trim (Sienna’s choice), clouds hand-painted on one wall (a compromise that resulted in Damon covered in paint and Sienna laughing until she cried).
They assembled a crib from a box—instructions in three languages, screws everywhere, both of them swearing at the diagrams.
“This is impossible,” Damon declared, staring at a piece that definitely didn’t fit where the instructions said it should.
“We’ve navigated family drama, public scandals, and forced therapy. We can build a crib.”
Two hours later, the crib stood—slightly crooked, but standing.
“It’s perfect,” Sienna said, even though it definitely wasn’t.
“It’s a disaster. We should hire someone to fix it.”
“No way. This is our disaster. Our baby’s sleeping in the crooked crib we built with our own incompetent hands.”
Damon pulled her close, kissed the top of her head. “You’re nesting.”
“I’m preparing. There’s a difference.”
“You’re nesting. And it’s adorable.”
She didn’t argue. Because he was right—she was nesting, building a safe space for their son, creating something normal and real in the middle of their abnormal lives.
The baby clothes appeared on a Wednesday.
Sienna came home from a doctor’s appointment—everything perfect, baby measuring right on track, only eight weeks to go—and found a large shopping bag sitting outside Damon’s penthouse door.
No note. No card. Just a bag from an expensive baby boutique, tied with a ribbon.
Inside: tiny onesies, soft sleepers, impossibly small socks. All in neutral colors—whites, grays, soft yellows. All clearly expensive, all clearly chosen with care.
“Did you order these?” she asked Damon when he got home.
He examined the bag, frowned. “No. You?”
“No. And there’s no card, no receipt. Someone just—left them.”
They looked at each other.
“Lucas?” Sienna suggested.
“Maybe. But he’s been pretty committed to the clean break. Anonymous gifts seem—”
“Unlike him. Yeah.” She pulled out a onesie—soft organic cotton, a tiny elephant embroidered on the front. “Whoever sent this has good taste.”
“And knows where we live. Which is concerning.”
“Or it’s family. Eleanor, maybe? Your mother?”
“My mother would have included a note listing everything we’re doing wrong. And Eleanor would have hired someone to deliver them directly to our hands while making pointed comments about preparation.”
Sienna’s phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
For the baby. He deserves soft things.
“It’s them,” she whispered. “Whoever stole my journal. Whoever’s been watching us.”
Damon grabbed her phone, read the message. His expression darkened. “They’re still out there. Still watching.”
“But they sent baby clothes. Not threats. Not leaked photos.” Sienna looked at the bag again. “What if—what if they’re not trying to hurt us anymore? What if they’re just—watching?”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“But it’s less threatening than before.” She pulled out another item—a soft blanket, hand-knitted, clearly expensive. “Whoever this is, they spent money. They care, in some weird way.”
“Or they’re playing a long game we don’t understand yet.”
Another text: Stop trying to find me. I’m not the enemy. Never was.
“Not the enemy,” Sienna read aloud. “Then what are you?”
No response.
But over the next week, more gifts appeared. Always at the door, always anonymous, always perfectly chosen:
A baby monitor. Books about newborn care. A collection of lullabies on CD. Organic baby wash and lotion. A mobile for the crib—soft stars and moons that played gentle music.
“Someone’s outfitting our entire nursery,” Damon observed, examining the latest delivery. “And they have better taste than half the stuff we registered for.”
“Should we be worried?”
“Probably. But honestly, at this point—” He shrugged. “I’m choosing to believe it’s someone who cares. Maybe family, maybe a friend, maybe a stranger who’s been following our disaster and wants to help.”
“That’s optimistic for you.”
“I’m trying something new. It’s called ‘not assuming the worst about everything.'” He kissed her. “Besides, we have enough actual problems. Anonymous baby gifts aren’t high on my concern list.”
But that night, Sienna looked at the nursery—filled with items they’d chosen and items someone else had gifted—and felt watched in a way that was almost comforting.
Someone cared about their baby. Someone wanted their son to have soft things, good things, safe things.
Even if that someone was hiding in the shadows.
The prenatal class threw Sienna a surprise shower at week six.
Nothing elaborate—just the eight couples gathering at the community center, sharing potluck dishes and playing gentle games that didn’t involve measuring Sienna’s stomach or guessing the baby’s weight.
“You’re the only one who doesn’t know the baby’s sex,” Naomi said, offering her a plate of cookies. “Everyone else found out. You’re sure you don’t want to know?”
“We know. It’s a boy. We just—haven’t told anyone who doesn’t need to know.” Sienna took a cookie. “It’s nice having one thing that’s just ours.”
“I get that. Especially with—” Naomi stopped. “Sorry, I promised myself I wouldn’t bring up the tabloid stuff.”
“It’s okay. It’s part of my life. But I appreciate you seeing past it.”
“Hard not to when you’re just—you. Not a scandal. Just a woman having a baby and trying to figure out motherhood like the rest of us.”
They gave her practical gifts—diapers, wipes, a gift card to a baby store. No one spent more than twenty dollars, and somehow that made it more meaningful than any expensive item Eleanor could have provided.
“Thank you,” Sienna said, tearing up because pregnancy emotions were no joke. “This is—you’ve all been so kind.”
“We’re in this together,” one of the other women said. “First-time parents, figuring it out, terrified we’re going to break our babies.”
“I’m definitely going to break him,” Sienna admitted.
“We all are. That’s what pediatricians are for.”
Damon picked her up after the class, helped her carry the gifts to the car.
“Good night?” he asked.
“The best. Normal people, normal gifts, normal fears about parenthood.” She leaned her head against the window. “I think I’m going to miss them. After the baby comes, when we don’t have classes anymore.”
“Then we’ll stay in touch. Have playdates. Build a community that isn’t just my family and their drama.”
“You’d do that? Playdates with people who aren’t billionaires?”
“I’d do anything that makes you happy. Including assembling complicated toys and singing children’s songs off-key.” He reached over, took her hand. “This is nice. The normal you’ve been building.”
“It is, isn’t it? Turns out I’m pretty good at normal when I’m not busy creating scandals.”
That night, tucked into bed with Damon beside her and the baby kicking against her ribs, Sienna felt something she hadn’t felt in months.
Content.
Not happy—happiness was too big, too complicated. But content. Safe. Like maybe they’d actually survive this and come out the other side intact.
Her phone lit up with one final text from the unknown number:
You’re going to be a good mother. He’s lucky to have you.
She showed Damon, who read it with a frown.
“We should really figure out who this is.”
“Maybe. Or maybe we just accept that someone out there is rooting for us.” She settled against him. “I’m choosing to believe it’s good. That we have a guardian angel who sends baby clothes and encouraging texts.”
“That’s naive.”
“That’s hopeful. There’s a difference.”
He kissed her forehead, and they fell asleep with the mystery unsolved but the nursery full, the baby growing, and the future somehow less terrifying than it had been.
Eight weeks to go.
Eight weeks until everything changed.
Eight weeks to enjoy the calm before the storm.
A bag of baby clothes with no note was just the beginning of realizing they weren’t as alone as they’d thought.
Someone was watching. Someone cared.
And for now, that was enough.
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