9. Anya
ANYA
Weeks later…
The coffee tastes wrong this morning. Not bitter, not burnt—just wrong. I push the mug away from me and immediately feel guilty because Eric brought it to me with that grin of his, the one that says he's pleased with himself for remembering I take it with cream but no sugar.
"Not good?" Vincent asks from his office doorway, notepad in hand like he's been making his daily rounds.
"It's fine." The lie comes automatically, but my stomach churns in protest. "Just not in the mood for coffee today."
Three pairs of eyes find me at once. Jones looks up from the file he's been reviewing at his desk. Eric pauses in whatever he's been typing. Vincent goes completely still in that way of his that means he's processing something significant.
The attention feels heavier than it should.
"Actually," I say, because the weirdness has been building for days and maybe talking about it will make it less strange, "I've been feeling off lately. Tired all the time, even when I sleep ten hours. And smells are bothering me—the hand sanitizer at the front desk made me nauseous yesterday."
The silence stretches long enough to make me look up from my keyboard. All three of them are staring at me with identical expressions I can't quite read.
"What else?" Jones asks, and there's something careful in his voice.
"Nothing dramatic. Just tired. A little sick to my stomach in the mornings." I shrug because it's not like I'm dying. "Probably stress or something."
Eric's chair creaks as he leans back. Vincent closes his notepad. Jones sets his file down with deliberate precision.
"When was your last period?" Vincent asks, and the clinical directness of the question makes my brain stutter.
"I—why would you—" But even as I start to deflect, the dates click together in my head. Three weeks late. Maybe four. I've been so busy with the clinic, so focused on proving myself in these final weeks of the deal, that I stopped paying attention to my body's schedule.
The realization hits like cold water.
"Oh."
Jones stands. "We're going downstairs."
"Now?" My voice comes out higher than intended. "I mean, it's probably nothing. Stress can mess with cycles, right? And I've been working a lot?—"
"Anya." Eric's voice is gentle but firm. "We're fertility doctors. We know what those symptoms mean."
The elevator ride to the ground floor feels endless.
I've walked past these examination rooms every day for three months, scheduled patients for procedures in these same spaces, but sitting in the patient chair feels surreal.
The paper crinkles under me when I shift, and the fluorescent lighting makes everything look too bright, too clinical.
Vincent draws my blood with steady hands while Jones reviews my chart and Eric hovers near the door like he's ready to catch me if I faint. The whole thing takes less than ten minutes, but the waiting afterward stretches into something that feels infinite.
"How long for results?" I ask, though I know the answer. I've scheduled enough of these tests to understand the timeline.
"Twenty minutes for the blood test," Jones says. "But we can do a urine test now if you want confirmation sooner."
I nod because sitting here in limbo feels worse than knowing. The urine test takes two minutes. Two minutes to find out if my entire life is about to change direction.
Vincent holds the test strip up to the light, and I watch his face for any reaction. His expression doesn't change, but something subtle shifts in the set of his shoulders.
"Positive."
The word hangs in the air between us. Positive. Pregnant. Carrying a baby that belongs to one of the three men currently staring at me like I'm made of something precious and breakable.
Jones moves first. He's at my side before I can process the movement, his hand warm and steady on my shoulder.
"Have you eaten today?"
The question is so practical, so typically Jones, that I almost laugh. "Yes. Toast this morning."
"That's not enough." He's already calculating, already shifting into the mode I recognize from watching him manage the clinic. "You need protein. Real food. When did you eat yesterday?"
"Jones." Eric's voice carries amusement and something deeper. "Let her breathe."
But Eric is grinning, and the expression is so bright it makes my chest tight. He reaches for my hands, threading our fingers together, and when he speaks his voice is rougher than usual.
"How do you feel? About this?"
The question catches me off guard because it's not what I expected. Not congratulations or concern about logistics or worry about timing. Just—how do I feel?
"Scared," I admit, because Eric has always been the one I can be honest with about the messy emotions. "And happy. Really happy, which is weird because I never pictured myself as a mother."
"You're going to be incredible." The certainty in his voice makes something warm unfurl in my chest. "But are you okay right now? Do you need water? Food? Should you be sitting down?"
"I am sitting down."
"You should stay sitting down."
Vincent appears at my other side with a bottle of water and a prenatal vitamin. When I look at him questioningly, he shrugs.
"We keep them in stock for patients. You should start taking them immediately." He pauses, and when he continues his voice is quieter. "I've already identified three obstetricians in the city with excellent reputations for high-risk pregnancies."
"High-risk?" My stomach drops. "Why would this be high-risk?"
"It's not," he says quickly. "But you're twenty-one. First pregnancy. I want you with someone who specializes in comprehensive care."
The thoroughness of his response—like he's been thinking about this possibility for months—makes me realize this moment isn't shocking to any of them the way it is to me. They wanted this. All three of them, in their different ways, wanted exactly this.
Jones squeezes my shoulder. "We're going to take care of you. Both of you."
The possessiveness in his voice should probably bother me. Instead, it makes me feel safer than I have since the moment Vincent said the word positive.
By the time we get back upstairs, the shock has settled into something warmer and more manageable. The blood test confirms what we already know, and Vincent schedules my first proper appointment with an obstetrician for next week.
"We should celebrate," Eric announces, spinning in his chair like he's too energetic to sit still. "Dinner. Somewhere nice."
"She needs rest," Jones counters immediately. "And proper nutrition. We should order in."
"We can do both." Vincent closes his laptop and looks at me. "What sounds good to you?"
The question is simple, but the way he asks it—like my preference is the only thing that matters—makes my throat tight.
Three months ago these men were strangers who held my inheritance hostage.
Now they're planning my prenatal care and asking what I want for dinner to celebrate the fact that I'm carrying one of their babies.
The absurdity of it should be overwhelming. Instead, it just feels right.
We end up at the restaurant where we had our first real date as a group, the one with the exposed brick and the wine list Jones actually approves of.
I order the salmon because Vincent mentioned omega-3 fatty acids being important for fetal brain development, and Eric teases me about becoming a health food convert while Jones makes sure I finish my entire portion.
"So," Eric says, twirling his fork through his pasta, "names."
"It's been three hours," I point out. "Isn't it a little early for names?"
"Never too early to start a list." His grin is unrepentant. "I'm lobbying for something classic. Traditional."
"Like what?"
"Eric Junior."
Vincent nearly chokes on his wine. "You don't even know if it's yours."
"Details." Eric waves his hand dismissively. "Besides, Eric works for a girl too. Very versatile name."
"Eric does not work for a girl," Jones says flatly.
"Erica?"
"No."
I watch them debate baby names with the same intensity they bring to clinic business decisions, and something settles in my chest. This easy back-and-forth, the way they include me without making me the center of attention, the assumption that we're all in this together—it feels like family.
"What about you?" Eric asks, turning to Vincent. "Any name preferences?"
Vincent considers the question with typical seriousness. "Something meaningful. Something with history."
"Like what?"
"I've always liked classical names. Roman, Greek. Names that connect to literature or philosophy."
I think about the baby currently the size of a grain of rice, probably, growing inside me. The baby who will be raised by three men who argue about everything from coffee temperature to conference room scheduling but who somehow always reach consensus when it matters.
"We have time," I say, and the certainty in my own voice surprises me. "Plenty of time to figure it all out."
Jones reaches across the table to cover my hand with his. "We do."
The conversation shifts to logistics—doctor appointments, what I can and can't eat, whether I should reduce my hours at the clinic—but the underlying current is pure celebration.
These three men are happy about this pregnancy in ways that go beyond the practical or the expected. They want this baby. They want me to be the mother of this baby. They want all of it, completely and without reservation.
Walking back to the car after dinner, Eric catches my elbow when I stumble slightly on the uneven sidewalk.
"Careful."
"It's just a curb."
"Still." His hand stays at my elbow, and Jones moves to my other side like he's creating a protective barrier against the evening foot traffic.
The overprotectiveness should be annoying. Instead, it makes me feel cherished in a way I'm not sure I've ever experienced before.
The next few days blur together in the best possible way.