Twenty-Nine

 

Worn In, Not Worn Out

 

 The door hadn’t even closed behind her before she heard his voice.

“…I don’t care how she got the photo. FIX IT! Pull it down, shove it up her ass. Just get it done!”

Ari froze in the entryway, the word done still vibrating in the air. Lily shifted in her arms, startled by the noise, small fingers tightening against Ari’s sweater. Cliff stepped quietly around her, setting the bags at the foot of the stairs before following her into the living room.

He’d already voiced his concerns after they dropped Cara off at the airport—paparazzi had been lingering since the West Village, and he hadn’t liked how many angles they’d had.

She’d waved him off at the time. Just noise, she’d said. And maybe she’d wanted to believe it. That after MSG, after all the chaos and adrenaline, the universe might grant her one peaceful day to come down.

But the face on the television as they entered the room confirmed what both of them already knew. Cliff had been right.

Jon paced like a caged animal in front of the screen, phone pressed to his ear, voice sharp enough to cut glass.

“I said clean it up, not fan the flames, Ken,” he barked. “I want it gone!”

He turned just as the segment began to roll.

“FUCK!”

The word hit like a thunderclap. He yanked the phone from his ear, disconnected the call, and hurled it onto the couch.

Ari’s breath caught. Slowly, she bent and lowered Lily to the rug, her eyes locked on the television.

There she was—caught mid-stride, Lily in her stroller, Cara walking beside her. Both of them laughing. A paparazzi shot, clearly taken without her noticing.

The headline scrolling across the bottom read:

Is the Bon Jovi Family Growing… Again? Moretti Bump Watch is ON!

“That’s right — Ariana Moretti Bon Jovi may be expanding more than just her production company empire.

Cameras caught the forty-four-year-old head of SAMCO Productions earlier today in New York’s West Village with her seven-month-old daughter Lily and longtime bestie Cara Francis, following two sold-out shows at Madison Square Garden.

Everything looked picture-perfect… until this little moment: a tiny black onesie with the words new to the crew.

Coincidence… or confirmation in cotton?

Ari exhaled slowly, one hand pressed against her ribs as she listened to the smarmy lilt of the anchor’s voice.

Dressed in her usual oversized Stones hoodie, the rocker’s wife has sparked fresh speculation. A Stones classic… or a classic cover-up?

After all, fans will remember the last time the couple shocked the world — a sudden divorce, a whirlwind romance, and a baby announcement that practically wrote itself.

No comment yet from the couple. Or from Bon Jovi’s ex-wife.

So… are the Bon Jovis gearing up for baby number two?

Stay tuned. Josie Johnson will keep you updated.”

Jon ran a hand through his hair, tension clinging to his shoulders like armor. “Josie,” he muttered, pacing again. “Of course it’s fuckin’ her. She’s been quiet too long.”

Ari crossed the room toward him, her voice steady but edged with dry humor. “I’d ask how your day was, but…”

He huffed, jaw working. “Right? Did you notice the lenses?”

“I did, Boss,” Cliff said from behind them, his tone level but firm. “But they weren’t close. The onesie photo had to come from the store’s internal camera. If you want, I can go back tomorrow and check it out.”

Ari turned on him. “You will do no such thing.”

“Why not?” Jon snapped.

Ari’s voice cut through before Cliff could answer. Calm. Clear. “Because she’s not wrong.”

Both men looked at her. Cliff blinked in confusion. Jon’s brow furrowed, temper pausing mid-breath.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

Ari didn’t flinch. “The speculation. The headlines. They’re not wrong, because I am pregnant.”

For a heartbeat, the room went still. Jon’s jaw flexed, his eyes dark with something between anger and fear. “It’s none of her fuckin’ business.”

“True,” Ari said softly, sinking onto the armrest of the couch. She smoothed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the picture of control. “But where’s the harm?”

Jon’s voice cracked through the quiet. “Because it starts here, and then it snowballs.” He let out a bitter breath, pacing again. “Or did you forget what she did last year? The way she framed it like you were some homewrecker sneaking through the back door with a baby on your hip?”

Ari’s gaze followed him, unshaken. “That’s not what this is anymore.”

He turned, his voice low but sharp. “Doesn’t matter. She’ll twist it. That’s what she does.”

Ari met his eyes, calm and unyielding. “She can only twist what we let her have.”

The silence that followed pressed close, the hum of the television still flickering in the background. Cliff shifted, clearing his throat quietly. “If you two are good here, I’m gonna do a perimeter sweep, then head out.”

Ari looked up and managed a small smile. “Thanks, Big Red.”

He gave her a respectful nod, then looked to Jon. “Let me know if you want me tomorrow.”

Jon didn’t respond—just a curt nod, jaw still locked tight. Cliff took the cue and disappeared down the hallway, the sound of the front door closing breaking the tension for a beat.

The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy, exactly. But it was wide.

Lily babbled from the floor, crawling toward the coffee table, one hand clutching her favorite teething ring. A moment later, the rhythmic click of claws echoed down the hall, and Meatball trotted in, nose to the ground. He flopped beside Lily, as loyal as ever.

Ari watched them for a long moment before lifting her eyes back to Jon. “I’m not hiding,” she said simply. “Not anymore.”

He exhaled hard, staring at the floor. When he finally sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, his hands tangled in his hair like he could squeeze sense into the situation.

“We’ve done this dance with her before,” he said, his voice rougher now. “We know how she plays. She doesn’t care about facts—just the story.”

Ari tilted her head slightly. “And what story do you think she’s gonna tell this time? We’re married. Our daughter’s seven months old. We have another baby on the way. If she wants to make that look dirty, then let her.”

Jon looked up, eyes flicking to Lily, who had now rolled onto her back, teether half in her mouth, Meatball snoring beside her. He looked back at Ari, his expression softer but weighted.

“You say that like it doesn’t cost us anything,” he murmured.

Her voice steadied even more. “Last year was different. I was scared. So were you. Everything felt fragile. But now?” She lifted a shoulder. “Now I’m just a mom who spent a day with her kid and her best friend. That’s all it is.”

He studied her for a long moment, searching for cracks that weren’t there.

“So, you don’t want me to chase this down?” he asked at last. “No calls, no damage control?”

Ari shook her head. “Let ’em talk. Let Josie write her article.”

“And if she keeps going?” he pressed.

Ari met his gaze. “Then we beat her at her own game—before she even starts.”

Jon’s brow lifted, curiosity edging out frustration. “And how do we do that?”

Ari’s smile curved slow and deliberate, a flicker of mischief warming her composure. “Well,” she said, voice dropping a note lower, “you call Ken and tell him to hold off.”

She stepped closer, crossing behind him, fingers grazing the back of his shoulder as she passed. He stilled but didn’t turn, eyes following her anyway.

“And while you’re doing that,” she continued, “I’m gonna go upstairs… slip into that sweater dress you like…”

Her steps slowed at the doorway, the air between them humming. “And those boots you can’t ever keep your hands off.”

She let the words hang, a teasing grin flickering across her face. “I’ll be down in twenty. And then, we’ll give them something worth printing.”

Jon shook his head, but for the first time all evening, his mouth curved into something dangerously close to a grin.

“God, you’re trouble,” he muttered.

“With a capital T-R-O-U-B-L-E,” her voice floated back, playful and unbothered as her footsteps faded up the marble stairs.

Jon sat there for a long beat, the sound of Lily’s soft babbling grounding him back in the moment. Finally, he reached for his phone.

“Hey, Gloria,” he said when she picked up. “You available to watch Lily tonight?”

He glanced over at the baby, flat on her back, kicking one leg while Meatball licked her hand like it was made of bacon.

“Great,” Jon said, a low sigh escaping. “Better make it a sleepover.”

Twenty minutes later, Ari appeared at the top of the stairs. The wine-red knit dress hugged her curves and the gentle swell of her belly—just enough to show, just enough to make him forget the rest of the world.

The ribbed fabric clung like it had been made for her alone. Every step down the staircase was a slow reveal of confidence and quiet grace. One hand skimmed the banister, the other held a black leather jacket.

Her dark curls fell in soft waves, catching the light with every move. She rarely wore jewelry—never needed it—but tonight, her engagement ring caught the glow. A sea-glass aquamarine set in platinum, pale green-blue and clear as morning. A row of delicate diamonds traced the band, just enough shimmer to make it hers.

The black boots echoed softly on the steps—strong, steady, unapologetically feminine.

Jon stood at the bottom, silent, breath caught. His eyes followed every step like lyrics writing themselves.

Ari reached the last stair and lifted her brow. “These the boots?”

He blinked once, then, low and deliberate, said, “Mercy… grrrrrrl.”

The smile that followed was crooked, intimate—the kind reserved for late nights, old songs, and memories that stayed warm.

Ari grinned, slow and dangerous. “Good.”

She tossed the jacket over her shoulder, pausing long enough to make him sweat.

“You coming, Rockstar? Or am I gonna make headlines without you?”

With Gloria tucked away in the living room, Jon grabbed his jacket, tossed her a crooked grin, and followed Ari to the door.

By the time they hit the street, the city was alive—all noise and neon and Saturday-night heat.

A black car slowed at the curb, headlights sweeping across the sidewalk. Just beyond, Trattoria Verita shimmered like a secret. Candlelight. Crisp tablecloths. Quiet money.

Jon opened the door for her like he always did. She stepped out like she owned the block. The wine-red dress did its job. So did the boots.

At the edge of the sidewalk, a single photographer stood waiting. Not Josie. Just one lens.

Jon didn’t flinch.
Neither did Ariana.