Arianne was three days past her due date. Three days. Seventy-two hours of Franz checking his phone every five minutes, of Aunt Estella watching Arianne with knowing eyes, of Gio appearing at the estate at odd hours with his tablet in his hand and his expression giving nothing away. Three days of Arianne moving through the house with one hand pressed to her belly and the other braced against whatever surface was nearest, her expression calm and patient and utterly unbothered by the fact that her son seemed content to stay exactly where he was.
"You should sit down," Franz said, for what had to be the fifteenth time that morning.
"I've been sitting. My back hurts from sitting."
"Then lie down."
"I don't want to lie down. I want to walk. The doctor said walking helps."
"The doctor also said you should rest."
"I'll rest when the baby's here."
"Aria—"
