Chapter 23
TAYLOR
The start of a new year, where the start of so many lives begin.
Normally, I love it: all those crisp lists, new goals, the blank-slate energy. But this year’s already come wrapped in grey. The snow melted overnight, the rain washed it into slush, and the sky hasn’t brightened since.
I tell myself it’s just the weather. Just the lull after Christmas.
But the truth presses heavier:
I don’t want to let the dark mood settle, but it’s been creeping in anyway.
Having Ax. Loving Ax. Feeling something tense between us: not distance exactly, but strain. A strain shaped like hope, and fear, and months of trying for what I’ve wanted since the beginning.
Part of me is grateful to finally be getting answers.
Part of me would’ve preferred to live in blissful ignorance a little longer.
Blissful? my inner voice mocks, says the woman who got caught sobbing in the shower Boxing Day morning.
Is it any wonder Axel’s made it his priority?
Axel, who doesn’t Google anything unless it’s work-related, who treats instruction manuals like optional suggestions at best, throwing himself into fertility forums and specialist profiles like he would threat assessments and client dossiers.
Then coming to me the day after Boxing Day with a neat, colour-coded shortlist of the top specialists in the country and telling me to pick one. Any one. And he’d sort the rest.
Not because research is his thing.
But because I am.
And so we’re here.
The waiting room feels too quiet, like everyone here is holding their breath at once. Soft grey walls, plush chairs, gentle lighting… as if they’re trying to cushion the blow before it comes.
And then there’s Ax.
A dark, unapologetic bulk beside me, far too big for the little chair, far too intense for the muted tones of the room. I see the glances being cast his way – staff, patients, even a toddler staring open-mouthed – and I can’t blame them.
He’s imposing.
A wall of black leather and quiet control.
All of it sharpened by the mask he’s absolutely not supposed to be wearing for my sake, yet he’s doing it anyway, because of me. Taking control where I can’t. Being the rock because today… I’m not.
Beneath my polished Chanel trouser suit, my stomach is a mess of slow somersaults and my knee won’t stop jittering.
I glance up at him, dark hair smoothed back, jaw set, mouth tight. But his eyes… they give him away. Concern. Determination. That tenderness he pretends not to have, but gives me without question.
And I hate how much I need it right now.
Hate how unfamiliar this weakness feels against the armour I’ve worn most of my life. I called him out for wearing a mask… but I’m just as bad. Like him, it got me through my childhood. Got me where I am today.
I’ve built an empire by being prepared, capable, in control.
Yet nothing about this feels controllable.
And no matter how many times I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, that biology doesn’t listen to teenage declarations or corporate ambition, that Ax was right and I can’t talk my body out of fertility… the fear reigns on regardless.
‘Taylor Stone?’
I blink up at the nurse stepping into the room and nod.
She smiles. ‘This way, please.’
I stand, running my clammy palms down my thighs, and take a breath as Axel rises beside me.
‘Okay?’ he murmurs, his steady hand settling against the small of my back.
And I nod again, too caught up in my thoughts to answer.
We follow the nurse down a corridor and into a consultation room. It’s brighter in here; pops of yellow lift the grey backdrop, a cheese plant flourishes in one corner, and the air smells faintly of lemons, cutting through the sterile edge.
The specialist comes out from behind her desk as we enter. She looks exactly like her photograph: late forties, smooth blonde bob, steady blue eyes.
‘Taylor, Axel,’ she greets us, her smile reassuringly warm. ‘I’m Ms Ellingham. It’s lovely to meet you.’
We shake hands and she gestures to the chairs waiting for us.
‘Please, take a seat.’
Axel waits for me to sit first, then lowers himself beside me, his leather creaking softly in my ear as Ms Ellingham returns to her desk.
I let my gaze drift over the room, cataloguing the little details: landscape paintings, official certificates, stacked brochures and leaflets, a sculpture shaped like a tree…
or maybe it’s hands reaching for each other.
‘So…’ she begins.
I pull my focus back to her, sitting straighter, hands clasped in my lap. I don’t know why I’m nervous. Not really. It’s not like she can look at me and declare me infertile on the spot.
Can she?
‘I understand you’ve been trying to conceive for about six months?’
‘Yes.’ My voice comes out too thin and I clear my throat, lean a little closer. ‘I know it’s not long, but at my age and with… well, we—’
My knee starts bobbing again and Ax is there in a heartbeat, his hand gentle on my thigh, steadying it, steadying me.
‘We thought it best to be proactive,’ he finishes smoothly, his eyes lingering on me, the small curve to his lips whispering all the encouragement I need.
‘Of course. And you’re absolutely right,’ she assures us. ‘At thirty-eight, seeking assessment after six months is perfectly reasonable. It doesn’t suggest anything is wrong; we’re simply being cautious with time.’
‘That’s good to know, doc.’ Ax gives my thigh a light squeeze, and I smile, well aware that he already knew this from his research.
‘Because neither of you has had a child yet, it’s helpful to test both partners from the start so we can get a complete picture,’ she continues.
‘Taylor, we’ll begin with a comprehensive blood panel to look at your hormones and ovarian reserve, and we’ll also do an ultrasound to check your uterus and ovaries.
Since your cycles are fairly regular, scheduling should be straightforward. ’
I nod, absorbing each word like a lifeline.
‘And Axel, we’ll arrange a semen analysis for you.’
He nods: no fuss, no ego, just the steady support he’s shown since he found me that morning.
‘And once we have all the results,’ she finishes gently, ‘we’ll review them together. If everything looks healthy, you can continue trying naturally with confidence.’
Confidence.
The word makes something tender and aching expand in my chest.
‘Most couples your age simply need a bit more time,’ she adds. ‘But gathering information early gives us the chance to deal with anything promptly.’
‘Yes,’ I manage. ‘Thank you, Ms Ellingham.’
She stands, that warm, reassuring smile back in place. ‘Our coordinator will get everything arranged. One step at a time.’
One step…
Ax wraps his hand around mine and leads me out, his thumb brushing slow circles over my knuckles.
‘You heard the doc,’ he murmurs through the mask. ‘One step at a time. We’ve got this, Baby Girl.’
And I nod, even as the fragile hope in my chest flutters like wings against glass.
Axel
One Month Later…
I pull up outside the Harley Street clinic and just sit there, gripping the wheel of my Audi until my knuckles go white.
The building looks harmless enough – clean lines, frosted glass, soft lighting bleeding through the windows – but it feels like it’s glaring right back at me, ready to tell me I’m the problem.
I could’ve done with my Ducati to blast away the black mood gnawing at my gut, but instead, I’m forced to drive. Turns out it ain’t just sex you’re made to abstain from before judgement day; it’s fast bikes too.
I cut the engine. The car stills; the menacing roar quits. Shame about the one inside my head – that ain’t quitting until this is over.
I smack my fist against the wheel and step out. Hunching my shoulders against the freezing wind, I cross the pavement and duck inside.
The reception area is just as quiet as it was the first day we came. A few people sit scattered on the plush grey chairs, pretending to look at their phones, pretending they don’t notice me, even though they do. I stand out like a beacon in reverse: black on white. A storm in the peace.
The receptionist gives me a polite smile and checks me in. Almost immediately, a nurse appears and leads me away. No waiting today. Thank fuck for small mercies.
She’s friendly. Efficient. Clearly used to men pretending this is no big deal.
She opens the door to a small, private room and steps aside.
I guess it’s what I expect:
Grey chair.
Table with magazines.
Bin. Wipes. Tissues. Instructions.
A Bluetooth speaker with a sign: Connect your own device. No, thanks.
Everything tidy. Everything sterile. Everything waiting for me to prove whether I can give Taylor the life she wants.
The nurse hands me the labelled specimen pot like it ain’t nothing, and I take it like it’s a ticking bomb.
‘If you need anything, just press the button. Take your time.’
Then she steps out and shuts the door.
Silence.
And all I can think is, how much time is too much time?
Because my cock sure as hell ain’t rising to this occasion.
It’s taken me a month to get here. A month of focusing on Taylor – her scans, her tests – pretending this is all about being there for her, while deep down, I’ve dreaded this moment.
Because what if it is me?
What if my DNA’s wrecked?
What if this proves what I’ve suspected all along: that everything in me is poison, and I don’t get to be a father?
Wouldn’t that be life’s way of handing out justice?
My jaw locks till it aches.
I’ve spent years believing I’m made of damage: anger, violence, all the wrong instincts stitched together. I’m not the blueprint you use to build a life. And fuck, did I tell her that.
Maybe my body listened where she didn’t.
Maybe it’s already decided I don’t get this.
The hypocrisy ain’t lost on me; telling Taylor she can’t think her way out of fertility when I’m standing here drowning in the same.
But she doesn’t deserve to carry that weight.
Me… I’m a different story.
I drag a hand down my face, breathing hard.