Chapter 17
Dorian endured the indignity in silence, the small, sterile room far removed from the easy anonymity of a shower.
When it was done, he sealed the container and carried it out like it contained radioactive waste.
At the counter, the nurse looked up with a smile.
"Just set it in the labelled tray, please.
Results will be back late afternoon." He gave a short nod and left in a rush.
The rest of the day dragged like nails on a chalkboard.
He went through the motions, signatures, conversations and schedules like an automaton.
Uncharacteristically, none of it registered.
Every time his phone buzzed, his hand snapped to it, pulse throbbing, only to drop again when it was nothing.
By mid-afternoon, the phone felt welded to his palm, his attention divided between the clock and the faint possibility of a call.
When it finally came, he was already half out of his chair before answering. The wait in the elegant lobby of the private clinic felt interminable. Minutes later, the doctor called him in.
"Mr. Albury. Please, take a seat."
The doctor was grey-haired and portly, his white coat pulling slightly at the buttons when he sat.
His voice carried an easy warmth, but it was completely lost on Dorian.
He stood taut as a wire, impatience clear in the set of his jaw, the restless flick of his fingers against his thigh.
The physician let the silence stretch, pen poised above the notes.
"Have you had unprotected intercourse since the vasectomy?"
"No." The reply was clipped. The man's pause, the way he scribbled something before continuing, made Dorian's shoulders knot with tension.
"What brought you in for the test today?"
"It's the right thing to do. I need to get it checked every six months, I understand. It has been years." He waved a hand as though the explanation were obvious.
"You did it at the beginning?"
"Yes." His voice was steady to begin with, then fumbled with hesitation. "The woman I was... involved with, she said she was pregnant. She claimed it was mine."
The doctor finally lifted his gaze, steady and unreadable. "And you didn't believe her."
That set every nerve on edge. His eyes sharpened, suspicion flaring. "Why?"
The physician leaned back, fingers steepled, tone still maddeningly calm. "Because, Mr. Albury, your results suggest there may have been a partial reversal."
Dorian's thoughts spun in an unending circle while the physician leaned back, fingers steepled. "It happens rarely, but it does happen. We may need to repeat the procedure. Which means..." A deliberate pause. "...the young lady might have been telling the truth."
The world tilted. Dorian sat back hard, words dissolving on his tongue.
Impossible. He had never considered it. Yet the same words repeated themselves in a loop.
Rune. The pregnancy. His instinct to still call it a betrayal.
Forgiveness had never been in his vocabulary.
Not for betrayal. But if it hadn't been betrayal at all. ..
He didn't want a child. He never had. But what now?
When he walked out dazed, Eli was waiting in the car, his fingers drumming the steering wheel. Dorian slid into the passenger seat and exhaled, covering his eyes with one hand. They drove in silence until Eli began to whistle.
"Shut up," Dorian muttered.
"I don't want to say I told you so," Eli said, grinning at the road.
"You're smiling. And for some reason," Dorian admitted, the ghost of a smile tugging at him too, "so am I."
It vanished as quickly as it came. The truth was inescapable now. He needed to find Rune. She was never going to forgive him. Dorian was nearly home when the decision struck him – sudden and absolute. He was going to talk to Rune. Only he had no idea where she was.
At a red light, he brought up her file, scrolling until an old address appeared.
Wales. His thumb hovered over her phone number as he checked his watch.
Late, but not impossible. He thought of calling, and before the thought had fully formed, he was already pressing her number.
It rang once, then twice. Then it went straight to voicemail.
On the third attempt, the line went dead, with a polite voice informing him, " This number is not available.”
A suspicion crawled in, cold and sharp. She had blocked him.
Dorian prided himself on control – every reaction measured, every emotion locked tight.
But this was different. A foreign anger bled through, fast and unfamiliar, curling through his chest until it burned.
And then, just as quickly, a memory cut through it, her voice, quiet and trembling, as though she hadn't meant to let the words slip.
Sometimes, it was hard to look at your face... You were so beautiful to me. There wasn't anything I wouldn't have done for you.
He could still see the way her beautiful eyes had shone with tears when she'd said it, wide with truth, raw with pain. Even a love like that had limits, he thought now, the recollection undid him as surely as it cooled his fury. His anger deflated, leaving only a strange flat ache behind.
He hit another contact. "Tom." The voice that answered was groggy, half-asleep. "Sir?" "I need Rune’s current details. Phone. Address. Everything. And I need you to do something." There was no argument. Just the sound of Tom clearing his throat, muttering assent, and hanging up.
By the next day, Rune's phone buzzed with a new message. It was Tom. Polite and apologetic, he inquired how she was and messaged that he needed to send some final paperwork, which required a current address. Rune hesitated, then typed it back. She had no reason not to.
Her mother filled the kitchen with chatter, words tumbling one over the other about the food festival on the high street, the farmer's market, and that boy, Kai, who had been calling and she swore was a good lad.
Rune had been smiling when he walked her home that night.
She listened with half an ear, hand drifting to her belly.
There was the faintest swell there now at week ten, though the baby still felt abstract.
She hadn't even had an ultrasound yet. There had been delays and rescheduling.
They had confirmed a date for the following week.
For a moment, her thoughts slipped unbidden to Dorian.
Not the man he had become in her mind, cold and untouchable, but a memory she couldn't quite shake.
That trip to Prague was about two years ago.
The air was sharp with winter, the cobblestones slick underfoot.
He had taken his time with her that night bringing her to the edge with his body before retreating and then starting the whole process all over again.
Afterwards, when they were lying in bed, he had suddenly asked if she wanted to go for a walk.
She'd gone, still sore and sleepy, padding along beside him through the lamplight because he was never impulsive and she did not want to lose this opportunity.
She'd forgotten her gloves, and without a word, he had taken her hand and tucked it into his pocket.
Then they had walked on in a comfortable silence.
She had been startled by the gesture. By him. That was a different Dorian. He would give her hope with one hand, only to take it away with the other.