Chapter 6
Chapter Six
NIKO
“W ell, it appears your wife is quite far along. Seventeen weeks to be exact. I’m surprised you left it this long to consult me.”
I freeze, my eyes darting towards Emylyah. Seventeen weeks? That can't be right. She just found out, didn’t she? Has she been keeping this a secret on purpose? Did she guess my reaction and try to sway my hand?
Clenching my jaw at the thought, I narrow my eyes at the doctor. "That's impossible. There must be some mistake." I growl, addressing him, even though I keep my harsh stare on my wife. "She only just told me about the pregnancy."
Emylyah shrinks back on the exam table, her eyes wide and her face pale. Still, she looks as shocked as I am. The doctor glances between us, clearly sensing the tension.
A calm, older man with salt-and-pepper hair, he shakes his head. "No mistake, Mr. Radaeva. Your wife is well into her second trimester. But sometimes these things can be a surprise, especially since I see she has an active implant.”
He looks at Emylyah. “Have you been taking any supplements?”
A small frown mars her forehead. “Um, just some St John’s Wort because I was feeling a little down,” she admits, and my gut wrenches again at her admittance.
The doctor hums under his breath and notes something on his records. “How much are you taking?” he asks, his lips pursed.
She flicks a glance my way before she responds. “Umm… 900mg a day.”
Dr Zelensky nods. “You need to stop taking it, but you’ll have to reduce your dose before you stop, or it could lead to withdrawal issues.”
His response makes me feel even worse. My wife has been self-medicating because she feels down!
Instead of dwelling on it, the doctor diplomatically changes the subject. “Also, we’ll need to remove your implant before you leave. Now, would you like to see the ultrasound?"
Before I can respond, Lyah blurts out, "Yes! Please."
I’m still trying to corral my fatalistic suspicions when he turns the ultrasound monitor towards us.
But then, shockingly, every thought is wiped from my mind, as there, on the screen, is a fully formed baby - not the vague blob I was expecting, but a tiny person with a distinct head, body, and limbs. All I can do is stare in awe.
"Would you like to know the gender?" the doctor asks, his tone all business.
I nod mutely, too overwhelmed to speak. Emylyah remains silent beside me, the tears in her eyes making them even bluer than normal.
"It's a boy," the doctor says with a smile. "Congratulations."
A boy. We're having a son. The reality of it hits me like a tidal wave and I have to fight to remain stoic and unaffected.
Even so, I find myself gripping the edge of the exam table for support.
A son. An heir. The weight of legacy and responsibility crashes down on me, mingling with an unexpected surge of fierce protectiveness.
"Everything looks healthy," the doctor continues, oblivious to my internal turmoil. "Strong heartbeat, good size for his gestational age. Would you like to hear it?"
Before either of us reply, a rapid whooshing sound fills the room. My son's heartbeat. It's fast, steady…
Alive.
I glance at Emylyah, seeing the wonder and joy on her face as she listens. Her hand rests on her belly, and for a moment, I'm seized by the urge to place my own hand there, to feel closer to this new life we've created.
But I resist, my mind racing with implications and plans. Seventeen weeks. That's over four months. How did she not notice? How did I not notice? I pride myself on being observant, on knowing everything that happens in my world. Yet somehow, this monumental change slipped right past me.
"I'll print out some pictures for you," the doctor says, breaking into my thoughts. "And we'll need to schedule another appointment in about 4 weeks for the anatomy scan."
I nod curtly, still processing everything. As Dr. Zelensky leaves to print the ultrasound images, I turn to Emylyah, studying her intently.
"Seventeen weeks," I say, my voice low and controlled. "How did you not know?"
I don’t make an outright accusation, but she clearly knows me well enough since she shakes her head frantically, her eyes wide and earnest. "I swear, Niko, I had no idea.
My periods have always been irregular, after all this time you must know that, and with the implant, there was no reason to suspect. .." She trails off, biting her lip.
Do I know that? I’m almost embarrassed to admit I’m unaware of such things, despite being married for almost three years. But it’s true that her cycle has never intruded on my pleasure, and I take her whenever I feel like it.
Plus, I want to believe her. The shock on her face when the doctor announced how far along she was seemed genuine. But years of paranoia and suspicion are hard to shake.
"What about weight gain? Nausea?" I press, searching for any sign of deception.
“I haven't noticed any changes," she whispers, her voice trembling slightly.
"What tiny clues there might have been I put down to stress. I've been worried about Roisin. About u... you. There was some vague nausea, but I didn't want to bother you with what I thought was just anxiety."
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. Have I really been so distant, so unapproachable, that my own wife was afraid to bother me with her health concerns? The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
I study her face, searching for any hint of deceit, but all I see is vulnerability and a desperate need for reassurance. Something twists in my chest, an unfamiliar ache. I know I have. It’s deliberate. But maybe I need to be better.
"Emylyah," I begin, my voice softer than I intend. “I...”
Before I can continue, the doctor returns with a stack of ultrasound printouts.
"Here you are," he says cheerfully, handing them to Emylyah. "Your little boy from every angle. Now, let's talk about prenatal care and what to expect in the coming months."
As Dr. Zelensky launches into a detailed explanation of dietary needs, exercise recommendations, and warning signs to watch for, I find my attention drawn to the colored 3D images in Emylyah's hands. The detail is astounding. I can clearly see everything. Fingers, toes, even the peaceful expression on the baby’s sleeping face.
My son.
The reality of it crashes over me again, bringing with it a tidal wave of absolute love so forceful I almost don’t recognize myself for a moment.
The sensation is primal, reckless, a meteor slamming into the bedrock of my being and leaving a scorched indent where my former self used to be.
My hand is still clenched on the edge of the exam table and for the first time in as long as I can remember, it shakes.
I stare at the printouts, watching Emylyah’s thumb hesitate on the glossy surface, tracing the outline of the tiny, perfectly formed skull, and I realize I’ve never truly contemplated what it would mean to see my own child.
To face a living testament to my bloodline and know it carries every hope, curse, and all the unresolved promises I can’t undo.
I glance at Emylyah and see a reflection of my own tumbling emotions trembling beneath her long, blonde lashes.
She cradles the images like a talisman, or perhaps a shield, as if holding them close will anchor her to this new reality neither of us is prepared for.
The doctor’s words fade into white noise as I hear, again and again, the echo of my son’s heartbeat - a sound that speaks to some primitive, unbreakable part of me that has survived every betrayal and every loss I’ve endured.
It’s so loud in my mind that for a second I’m afraid everyone in the building must hear it, must know a new Radaeva is coming into the world. That knowledge tightens something inside of me, a binding vow I can feel etching itself into my bones.
Emylyah’s gaze flicks to me, searching for some sign of what I’m thinking, and I wonder if she senses the seismic shift in my priorities; the sudden, ferocious need to shield this child and her from the countless enemies I’ve cultivated over the years.
I know exactly what’s expected of me, what kind of father and husband I must be now the stakes have changed.
But right now, all I can do is stare at the ghostly outline of my son’s profile in the scan—how his nose is already sharp, how even now he seems to scowl, like he’s inherited my displeasure at being observed.
I want to laugh, or scream, or maybe just run my hand over Emylyah’s barely-there bump and feel something move beneath my palm.
But I stay still, almost reverent, and let the weight of legacy settle around my shoulders.
My son. A future. A line that continues after me.
A legacy I can’t walk away from, even if I wanted to.