Chapter 19 Love Conquers All
LOVE CONQUERS ALL
DOMINIC
Hope creeps in silently, soft and warm, the way sunlight slips between curtains in the morning. But once it’s there, once it touches you, it’s impossible not to reach for more.
That’s what today feels like.
We’re at her twenty-week appointment, and I’m trying my best not to look like a man about to pass out from emotion. Enya lies back on the exam table, her shirt lifted just enough to expose the swell of her belly.
My child is in there.
Our child.
She wouldn’t let me take her to her twelve-week appointment, but I did see the baby and hear its heartbeat when I took her to the ED four weeks ago. This time, though, she put the appointment on the calendar that she hangs in her kitchen.
I was expected to take her.
The father.
We’ve come a long way in a short time.
Enya doesn’t want to know the baby's gender; she wants to be surprised. I’m a planner, I hate surprises—but I’m going to give her what she wants.
“You sure you don’t want to know the sex of the baby?” the OBGYN asks.
I look into Enya’s eyes, feeling a profound sense of rightness. “Yes, we’re sure,” I confirm.
After the appointment, I take Enya home.
I insist that she rest. She argues—says the shop won’t run itself, that she can’t afford to lose momentum—but this time I don’t back down.
It took weeks of quiet pressure to get her to agree to part-time help. Conversations framed around logistics instead of worry. Cash flow instead of fatigue. Me reminding her that once the baby is here, she’s going to need help anyway. Eventually, she relented.
Farah is a GWU student who lives a few blocks away. She’s smart, careful with the flowers, and reverent about the space Enya created at Lucille’s. Farah comes in for four hours, three days a week, and covers days like today when Enya has appointments.
Enya still checks in, still gives instructions, still hovers more than she admits—but she’s learning to delegate. And I’m learning to let her do things her way, as long as she’s not doing them alone.
We eat a light lunch—she’s having to space her food because of heartburn—after which I get her into bed.
As she lies down, I sit next to her, staring at the printouts of the ultrasound photos like I’m studying a holy text.
I already sent pictures to the family chat group.
I did the same last time. Everyone agrees that the baby is adorable and thankfully looks more like Enya, which is a good thing.
Obviously, we have no clue what the baby looks like because what we can actually see looks more like a weather map with eyes than a baby. Still, cutest baby ever.
Enya watches me, her Kindle on her belly. “You’re really happy,” she murmurs.
“I’ve never been happier,” I admit.
She blushes.
I put the photos aside, and slide into bed next to her. We’ve been sleeping together, and she lets me hold her. Thanks to that, I’ve been sleeping better than I have in years.
She cuddles into me. No resistance.
“The scar on your chest?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Back, before, you said you were in a bicycle accident.” That’s how we refer to the old times when I was Nick Smith and not Dominic Delacour.
“I was shot.”
She sits up, gasps. “What?”
I draw her back to me, kissing her temple. “It was a year ago. It was in Paris. I can’t say more.”
She strokes the scar through my t-shirt. “Was it bad?”
“Yeah.”
“You….” She nuzzles against me. “Did you almost….”
“Die?” I stroke her hair.
“Did you?” I hear the quiver in her voice.
“No.” A white lie, I believe, is warranted if it means my pregnant woman will rest easy. “And I was right as rain, as the cliché goes, in no time.”
I was out of commission for four months—but she doesn’t need to know that. I have no intention of going back to that life or letting it seep into the one I’ve built now.
She lifts her head and looks at me with profound sadness. “I almost lost you even before I met you.”
“No, baby, that was never going to happen. We are fated.”
I gently touch her lips with mine.
The kiss starts slow and uncertain, but heats up quickly. The chemistry between us hasn’t changed; we’ve kissed before—but this is the first time she’s pulled me close since I left her.
Her hands are in my shirt, pulling me closer. Mine cradle her face, her waist, the curve of her growing belly. I cup her breast and roll her nipple under my thumb.
She moans.
I want her so badly it hurts.
But just as I slide my hand along her thigh, she tenses.
I stop instantly. She’s not ready.
“Nick.” Her breathing is unsteady.
I draw my hand up her body and let it rest on her waist. “Sleep, baby.”
She nestles close to me. “I’m sorry.”
I kiss her hair. “Nothing to be sorry about, baby.”
“I want you.” Her voice trembles. “But….”
“You’re not ready,” I finish for her. “It’s okay. Just let me hold you while you sleep.”
She sniffles. “You were supposed to be different, Nick. You were supposed to be my person, one who wouldn’t use me.
My family only wanted me when it made them look good.
Barclay wanted my father’s connections. Everyone always wants something from me.
” Her voice cracks. “You were supposed to be the exception. And instead….”
It crushes me to hear her pain. “I became just another person who used you.”
She swallows hard. “Yes.”
“I’m not him.”
“I know that.”
“I love you.”
“I know that, too. I want to trust you, Nick,” she whispers. “I just…don’t know how.”
My heart breaks a little.
“Baby, you don’t owe me anything. Not your trust. Not your forgiveness. Not your body.”
She settles against me, the rigidity leaving her. She’s soft and pliable.
Mine.
“I just want to be here,” I confess. “With you. For you. For our child. Whatever and however that looks like, you’ll allow me to be here with and for you.”
She exhales shakily.
Her wounds run deep.
Not only because of me, but from a lifetime of being treated like she’s expendable.
I kiss the top of her head. “I’m not going to be another person who hurts you,” I vow.
“I know.” She kisses my shoulder and then, slowly, her breathing settles, and she falls asleep.
I doze off as I hold my world in my arms, confident that we’ll make it—become a family.
I can feel it in my bones.