Chapter 2
Lucas
The first trimester turned our house into a hospital suite.
Bella retreated to the bedroom, sheets pulled high, her body a battlefield of hormones and nausea.
Every morning, I found her curled around the pillow, skin clammy, hair glued to her forehead.
She never complained, not once, but she started keeping a trash bin on her side of the bed and a notepad by the lamp for the endless parade of medical instructions.
I became a master of the calendar. Appointments blocked every third day—OB, endocrinologist, a trip to the ER after she fainted in the shower.
I learned the traffic patterns to every specialist within ten miles.
At work, my assistant got used to rescheduling my life around prenatal blood draws and ultrasounds.
She didn’t bother with “family emergency” anymore. She just wrote “wife.”
The weeks blurred. Bella slept through most of them, surfacing only to swallow crackers and vitamins and to whisper that she was sorry for being “such a disaster.” I didn’t know how to tell her that it made me love her more.
I kept the house running, cooked bland foods, and stood in the pharmacy aisles comparing brands of prenatal vitamins as if the right combination would guarantee a heartbeat.
Each time I watched the screen in the ultrasound room, I flinched before the doctor moved the wand, braced for that terrible silence where hope went to die.
It was different with this baby. The doctor made us come in early and often, her face grim but professional, as if hope was a liability.
At the second ultrasound, the tech pointed at the black-and-white static and said, “There,” and then we heard it—the rapid, frantic flutter of a hummingbird’s wings.
The sound was so loud it felt like the room had been hollowed out just to hold it.
Bella pressed her hand to her mouth. She didn’t cry, not until we were alone in the car and the adrenaline wore off. I drove us home, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping hers like I could anchor her to the earth if I tried hard enough.
Work, meanwhile, should have fallen apart.
I expected it. Instead, Victoria Sinclair ran the show with incredible surgical precision.
She never asked twice for anything. She anticipated obstacles before I had a chance to notice them, and she never made me feel like I was slacking when I slipped out for another emergency.
At first, I chalked it up to competence.
Then I realized she was protecting me—handling the ugly details, neutralizing the blow-ups, making sure I could be present at home without sacrificing the launch.
I should have been threatened. Instead, I was grateful.
If Victoria envied my absence, she never showed it.
We developed a shorthand: quick emails, silent glances in meetings, passing notes on conference calls.
She was all business, and the only time she ever smiled was when she closed a deal or crushed an opponent in negotiation.
“You know you’re allowed to have an ego,” I told her once, after she took down a senior partner with a single slide.
She looked at me, perfectly deadpan. “I’m saving it for my memoir.”
I laughed, and she almost smiled.
The family dinner at Christian’s was set for a Sunday, at the hour when every Ashford converged on a single house like birds to a feeder.
Bella felt well enough to sit up and brush her hair for the first time in days.
I brought her to the car, blanket over her knees, water bottle in hand.
She gave me a look that said, You’re hovering.
“You want to bail?” I asked. “I can fake a power outage.”
She shook her head. “We’re not missing this.” The force in her voice told me how much she wanted to feel normal, just once.
Evelyn greeted us at the door, all bright eyes and perfect makeup, dressed like she’d stepped out of a lifestyle blog. She hugged Bella, then set her up in the comfiest chair, a footstool at the ready.
Hunter arrived late, Olivia on his arm, their kids circling the living room like electrons. I watched him as he watched Bella, the guilt still on his face years after their own disaster. I respected him more for not hiding it.
Dinner was a showcase. Evelyn had made four entrees and three desserts.
Christian sat at the head of the table, carving the roast with the seriousness of a surgeon.
The kids ran in and out, grabbing rolls and throwing them at each other.
It was loud and messy and so aggressively normal that I could almost believe we belonged there.
Halfway through the meal, Christian cleared his throat. “We have an announcement,” he said, squeezing Evelyn’s hand.
Evelyn’s face went crimson. “We’re expecting again. January.”
Hunter whistled, and Olivia laughed. Bella reached over and touched my arm, her fingers shaking, a silent congratulations.
Christian raised his glass. “To the future. May it not repeat the past.”
We all drank. Even Bella, a sip of water in solidarity.
Afterward, I found her on the back porch, blanket wrapped tight, staring into the dark yard.
“You okay?” I asked.
She nodded, but I saw her eyes were wet. “I just—what if I can’t do this?”
I sat beside her. “You already are. You’re the strongest person I know.”
She smiled, thin and weary. “That’s not true. I just fake it better.”
I told her about my mother, how she once broke her leg skiing and refused painkillers because she didn’t want to look weak. Bella said, “You loved her a lot.”
“I did,” I replied. “And I love you more.”
She leaned into me, shivering a little. “Promise me again?”
I didn’t have to ask what she meant. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Not alone, anyway.”
She closed her eyes. “That’s all I need.”
Later, after we got home, made love and she fell asleep, I lay awake and watched her breathe. At three a.m., she jolted upright, gasping.
“What is it?” I asked, heart hammering.
She couldn’t speak at first. Then: “I lost it. In my dream, I lost the baby.”
I pulled her into me, hand on her back. “It’s not real. You’re both here. I’ve got you.”
She put her palm over my chest, as if the rhythm could convince her.
“Don’t leave,” she whispered.
“I never will,” I promised, and I meant it. Even as I felt the pressure building at work, the new responsibilities mounting, the sense that something was coming for us and I was the only shield between her and the world.
She fell asleep in my arms. I stayed awake, inventorying every promise I’d ever made, wondering if this time I could keep them all.