42. Gen
Chapter 42
Gen
T he first thing I register is the smell.
Warm, rich, unmistakably buttery.
The second is the low hum of voices filtering in from the kitchen, pitched in that particular cadence that means they’re trying—and failing—to be quiet.
I push back the covers, blinking against the early morning light, and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My body protests the movement, stiff from a restless night, but I make it to my feet without too much struggle. Twenty weeks and the idea of waddling feels absurdly premature, but there's no other word for the awkward, careful way I shuffle toward the kitchen.
When I round the corner, I freeze.
All three of them are crammed into the space in front of the stove, an image so absurdly domestic that for a moment, all I can do is stand there and stare.
Sebastian is hunched in an awkward stance as he curses at the pancake he’s attempting to flip.
Max stands beside him, arms crossed, arguing about the correct batter-to-butter ratio with the kind of intensity usually reserved for corporate mergers. Silas, of course, has a spatula tucked behind one ear and a glass of orange juice in his hand, offering commentary that consists mainly of mocking them both.
Something tight and painful swells in my chest. I press a hand against my sternum, trying to will the sudden sting of tears in my eyes away.
Sebastian notices me first and his eyes go wide.
"Shit," he says immediately, abandoning the pancake to the mercy of the pan. "Did we do something wrong?"
The sheer panic in his voice cracks something open inside me. A tear slips free, and I scrub at it furiously.
"No," I manage, my voice wobbling embarrassingly. "You did everything right."
Silas's mouth twitches in a grin. Max steps forward, squeezing my shoulder and kissing me on the top of the head before returning to supervise the increasingly disastrous pancakes.
I offhandedly mentioned I was craving pancakes last night, and here they are, making that happen for me. I’m overwhelmed by how easily they fill the empty spaces I didn’t know I was still carrying.
We eat together at the counter, pancakes slightly burned, bacon too crispy. I have to skip the eggs. They’re a little too runny, making my stomach turn.
And then, halfway through laughing at something Max mutters under his breath about Silas’s culinary crimes, it happens.
A tiny, almost imperceptible flutter low in my belly. It almost feels like a butterfly flapping it’s wings.
I still.
My fork clatters against the plate.
"What’s wrong?" Max asks, voice sharper than necessary.
I press a hand to my stomach, heart pounding.
"Nothing," I whisper. "I think…I think the baby just kicked."
For a second, no one moves.
Then Max is on his knees in front of me, both hands gently framing my stomach. Silas crowds in from one side, Sebastian from the other, their expressions suspended somewhere between awe and terror.
We wait.
Seconds stretch into what feels like hours.
Then, there—a soft, unmistakable thud against my palm.
Max lets out a choked laugh. A shit-eating smile takes over Silas’s face.
Sebastian has to turn away for a second, his shoulders rigid with the effort to hold himself together.
When he finally turns back, his eyes are glassy.
He presses a kiss just above my navel, his hand trembling slightly where it rests against me.
"I can't believe I almost lost this," he murmurs against my skin.
“But you didn’t, baby…you didn’t,” I reply, running my fingers through his hair and letting the tears stream down my face.
* * *
By the time we leave the store, I’m exhausted in the best way.
Max somehow turns even the most mundane errands into something intense but fun. We spent almost an hour debating crib sheets—he argued that the baby would obviously prefer dinosaurs over neutral pastels, and I countered that dinosaurs didn’t match the aesthetic we were building. In the end, we compromised with a set that had tiny golden crowns stitched along the edges.
It felt easy.
Normal.
So, of course it goes to shit.
I catch a glimpse of her before Max does. A flash of platinum hair, a designer coat draped carelessly over one shoulder. Heather.
"Well, well," she drawls, surveying me with thinly veiled contempt. "You’re really milking this, huh?"
I stiffen instinctively, but Max moves faster, stepping between us like a wall. His voice is deadly calm.
"Walk away, Heather."
For a moment, I think she might. But Heather’s never been good at knowing when she’s already lost.
Instead, she tips her head, her gaze sliding deliberately down to my belly.
"You sure you even know who the father is?" she purrs, feigning innocence. "Or are you just collecting men like trophies?"
The heat that rushes to my face isn’t shame—it’s rage.
Before I can speak, Max cuts in, voice sharp enough to slice through the growing tension.
"Say one more word," he growls, "and I swear?—"
Heather holds up her hands in mock surrender. "Relax. I’m just saying...not everyone thinks your little love nest is as sweet as you do."
Her eyes gleam, malicious and mean.
I should walk away. I know that. I’ve spent years mastering the art of restraint, of picking my battles.
But when I see the smug tilt of her chin, the way she looks at me like I’m nothing but a mistake waiting to happen, something inside me snaps.
“Why are you such a bitch? Honestly, you’re not worth even a moment of my time. You never were.”
I turn, forcing myself to move slowly, deliberately, toward the doors. Max falls into step beside me immediately. We’re almost to the parking lot when Heather’s voice cuts through the cool night air, too close behind us.
"You know he’ll get bored, right?" she calls. "All of them will. You’re a brand new shiny toy right now, but give it time. That kind of devotion? It never lasts. Especially not for someone like you."
I stop walking.
Max stiffens beside me, ready to intervene, but I lift a hand to stop him. This is mine to handle.
I turn slowly, meeting Heather’s gaze head-on.
"No amount of scheming or lies will ever change the fact that they chose me," I tell her.
Heather laughs—a joyless sound that echoes too loudly in the open air. But there’s something desperate in her eyes now that unnerves me.
“And even if they walk away from me, they will never choose you. I promise you that.”
She spins on her heel and stalks away, muttering under her breath.
Max exhales, tension rippling out of him in waves.
"This isn’t over," he mutters, more to himself than to me.
No.
It isn’t.