Chapter 11
Willa
S ix days later, I’m standing in what Iskander calls my suite, though the word feels inadequate for the elegant space I now call home.
The rooms are decorated in pastels and creams that somehow manage to feel both luxurious and comfortable, with windows overlooking Charleston’s harbor and a sitting area that catches the morning light.
The adjoining door to Iskander’s bedroom remains unlocked on both sides, though I haven’t spent a single night in my own bed since arriving. His sheets smell like cedar and bergamot, and his arms feel like the safest place in a world that’s become increasingly dangerous.
This morning feels different though. Today, we meet Dr. Layton for my first real prenatal appointment, and the nervous energy in the house is almost visible. Iskander has been unusually quiet since breakfast, reviewing security reports but clearly preoccupied.
I smooth my hands over the simple navy dress I’ve chosen for the appointment, noting how my body is already changing in subtle ways.
The dress that fit perfectly two weeks ago now pulls slightly across my chest. My breasts feel fuller and more sensitive, and there’s a strange fluttering sensation in my lower abdomen that might be early movement or might just be anxiety manifesting physically.
Or it could be gas. Nothing about pregnancy is elegant.
“Ready?” Iskander appears in the doorway connecting our rooms, wearing a charcoal suit that makes his gray eyes look darker than usual.
Despite his composed exterior, I catch the tension in his shoulders and the way he adjusts his cufflinks twice, which is a nervous habit I’ve catalogued over the past six days.
“As ready as I can be for my first real prenatal appointment.” I gather my purse and the folder of medical documents from the urgent care visit. “Are you nervous?”
He considers the question with characteristic honesty. “Yes. Not about the baby, but about whether we’ll learn something that complicates the pregnancy.”
The admission makes me feel less alone in my anxiety.
We’ve both been pretending the past ten days that everything is normal, and moving in together and sharing a bed is just a practical arrangement rather than something that feels increasingly like a relationship.
I’m ready to drop the pretenses and focus on realities.
“What if something’s wrong?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
“We’ll handle it.” His voice carries quiet confidence.
I nod, and we leave the room and then the house.
The drive to Dr. Layton’s office passes in comfortable silence, though I catch Iskander checking the mirrors more frequently than usual.
His security team follows at a discreet distance, invisible to casual observation but close enough to respond if needed.
Over the past six days, I’ve started to notice them, which is easier when I’m not willfully pretending they aren’t there.
Charleston looks different from the passenger seat of his Bentley, being more elegant and refined than it appears from my usual perspective. Spanish moss drapes ancient oak trees like nature’s curtains, and everything feels proper and genteel from this side of the socioeconomic divide.
“Have you thought about names?” I ask as we turn into the medical complex parking lot.
He instantly shakes his head. “Not seriously. It seems premature when we don’t know if we’re having a boy or girl.” He parks near the building entrance, positioning the car for quick departure if necessary. “Have you?”
I manage a tight smile. “I’ve been avoiding it. Naming something makes it more real, and I’m still adjusting to the reality of being pregnant at all.”
He takes my hand. “That seems entirely normal and rational to me.”
I keep hold of it like an anchor as we walk into the building together.
Dr. Layton’s office occupies the top floor of a modern medical building made from glass and steel with a beautiful view of the harbor.
The waiting room is decorated in soothing neutrals designed to calm nervous expectant parents.
The other patients provide a cross-section of pregnancy experiences that feels both comforting and intimidating.
A young couple argues quietly about baby gear while an older woman reads pregnancy magazines with desperate focus.
A girl who looks to be in her mid-teens sits with a woman who is probably her mother, her lips tightly pursed and magazine firmly covering her face as though she’s embarrassed to be seen in this situation.
The girl looks miserable, and I give her an encouraging smile when our gazes accidentally meet.
I fill out paperwork while Iskander studies other patients with subtle like he’s evaluating possible threats. He probably is, since his awareness never fully relaxes, even here in what should be a safe space.
“Willa Reynolds?” A nurse in cheerful scrubs calls my name after a few minutes that feel like hours. We rise together and follow her back to an exam room.
Within minutes, the obstetrician joins us. Dr. Layton gives off a positive energy, which is reassuring.
“I’ve reviewed your file from Dr. Morrison,” she says after introductions and basic questions about how I’m feeling. “I’m concerned about the late start to prenatal care, even though I understand you didn’t realize you were pregnant until recently.”
The gentle criticism makes me defensive despite knowing she’s right. “I was on birth control. Missing a few pills during a stressful period didn’t seem significant until other symptoms appeared.”
“No judgment here. These things happen, especially during times of emotional upheaval.” Her tone remains kind but firm. “What matters now is ensuring you and the baby get proper care moving forward.”
The nurse draws blood while Dr. Layton continues her line of questions. This all should be reassuring but instead, it makes everything feel more serious and real.
“Any family history of multiples?” asks Dr. Layton while labeling the blood samples.
“Not that I know of. I was abandoned to foster care at a young age though, so family medical history is limited.” The admission still hurts even after all these years.
“None in my family,” says Iksander while sending me a sympathetic look. It’s not pity but care I see in his eyes, so it doesn’t sting my pride.
My stomach flutters with sudden nerves. “Why do you ask?”
“Your hormone levels from the urgent care visit were quite elevated. It could indicate multiples, though there are other explanations. Some women just produce a lot of hCG.” She makes notes in my chart. “We’ll know more after the ultrasound.”
Multiples. The word sends a spike of anxiety through my nervous system. Twins would double everything, from expenses to sleepless nights, and the complexity of keeping children safe in Iskander’s dangerous world.
“I’d like to do an ultrasound today,” Dr. Layton says. “Normally, you’d have one at eight weeks and the next at twelve weeks, but given the late start to care, I want to confirm dating and check for any obvious concerns.”
The ultrasound room is dimly lit and dominated by sophisticated equipment that looks more like space technology than medical devices. I lie back on this new examination table while Iskander settles into a chair beside me, taking my hand with gentle pressure that anchors me in the moment.
“This might be cold,” Dr. Layton says as she applies gel to my still-flat abdomen.
The sensation is shocking against my skin, but I focus on Iskander’s warm fingers intertwined with mine. My heart pounds so loudly I wonder if the ultrasound machine will pick it up instead of the baby’s.
Dr. Layton positions the probe, and the monitor comes alive with grainy black and white images that look like abstract art until she begins pointing out recognizable shapes. “There’s the gestational sac,” she murmurs, adjusting controls to enhance the image clarity. “I can see... Wait…”
Her voice trails off as she moves the probe slightly, studying the screen with increased intensity. The silence stretches uncomfortably while she examines something I can’t decipher, her expression shifting from routine professional interest to surprise.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, though part of me doesn’t want to hear the answer.
“Not wrong. Just...unexpected.” She continues her examination, marking measurements and capturing images. “I’m seeing multiple gestational sacs.”
Multiple. The word hangs in the air while my brain struggles to catch up. Twins, maybe, which would explain the intensity of my symptoms and the rapid changes in my body.
“Twins?” Iskander’s voice carries the same uncertainty I’m feeling.
Twins would change a lot. That’s twice as much to worry about.
“More than twins.” Dr. Layton’s tone becomes low and slower. “I’m counting seven distinct sacs, each with visible fetal poles and cardiac activity.”
Seven. The number makes me whimper aloud while rendering me temporarily incapable of speech or rational thought. Seven babies. Seven tiny humans growing inside my body simultaneously, each one requiring nutrients, space, and care I’m not sure I can provide.
The room spins slightly, and I have to close my eyes to regain equilibrium. Seven babies. Seven cribs, seven car seats, and seven college educations. That means seven people who will depend on Iskander and me for everything they need to survive and thrive.
I look at Iskander and see my own shock reflected in his face, though his expression has gone completely still as though he’s processing information too significant for immediate reaction.
“Septuplets,” Dr. Layton continues, labeling each sac on the screen with letters A through G.
“All appear healthy at this stage. Their heart rates are strong, and development looks appropriate for gestational age. They’re smaller than we’d expect with singletons at this stage, but that’s to be expected, and they’re within nominal ranges for this many. ”