13. Serena #2
She asks the questions again. Pain. Bleeding. Dizziness. Fever. Stress.
I laugh at stress. Dr. Ross doesn’t laugh. “A lot?”
“A little.”
Lucia coughs.
“A lot,” I admit.
“Recent trauma?”
“Yes,” I tell the ceiling.
Nobody asks for details. Good. There are only so many times a woman can say my husband believed fake footage of me having sex with another man before the sentence starts sounding like a soap opera pitch.
Dr. Ross checks my abdomen. Matteo turns toward the wall. Not because I asked. Because the exam requires my shirt lifted and his respect has instincts. The doctor presses gently, asks where it hurts, then sends for an ultrasound.
The wait is fifteen minutes. It feels like three years.
Rocco is outside the whole time. He doesn’t come in. He waits where I told him to wait. That shouldn’t be a miracle. Still, my heart notices.
“Do you want water?” Matteo asks.
He reaches into the bag Lucia brought and pulls out my bottle. The one with the blue cap that doesn’t leak, because the metal one makes water taste like pennies. Rocco knows none of that. He knows shipping manifests and which capos are lying to his face. Not the blue cap.
Matteo unscrews the cap and hands it to me. “Small sips.” Then he takes the folded blanket from the chair and drapes it over my legs, stopping at my knees. Not over my stomach. Because he knows I hate anything pressing there when I’m scared.
Rocco appears in the doorway. He must have knocked. I didn’t hear it. I only know he’s there, watching Matteo place the blanket exactly right.
I see the urge in him. The jealousy. The pain of another man knowing the small things.
Matteo steps back. Not guilty. Not challenging. Just done. Rocco’s eyes meet mine, then drop to the floor. He stays in the doorway.
“Dr. Ross says the ultrasound is ready,” he says. His voice is rough. Holding anger. Holding himself. “She asked if you want me in the hall or waiting room.”
I swallow. He’s asking. Really asking. Not where should my men stand. Where do you want me.
“Hall,” I say. “No guards at the door.”
The muscle in his jaw jumps. “There are risks.”
“There are always risks.”
“Serena—”
“Not like this.”
The sentence that makes him stop.
He turns his head. “Lewis. Pull them back to the lift. All of them.”
Footsteps move away. He doesn’t look proud. Good.
The ultrasound room is dim. Hospital dim, not romantic dim. Lucia comes with me. Matteo waits outside this time because I don’t ask him in. Rocco waits in the hall because I told him to.
The ultrasound tech introduces herself as Moira and warms the gel because apparently the universe has decided warm gel is the one mercy I get this week.
I lie back. My hand grips Lucia’s so hard she winces.
“Sorry.”
“Break it if you want.”
Moira puts the probe on my stomach. The image flickers on the screen. Black and white. Static. Shapes.
I stop breathing.
Then the baby appears. Curled. Moving. Heart flickering so fast it looks like light.
Alive. Alive. Alive.
The sound comes next. Fast heartbeat. Strong. Wild.
My whole body gives up. I cry so hard my shoulders shake. Lucia bends over me and presses her face into my hair. “Okay,” she whispers. “Okay. Okay.”
Moira explains things. Heartbeat normal. Placenta fine. Cervix closed. No sign of active bleeding. Likely round ligament pain made worse by stress, dehydration, and not resting enough.
My body has become a Yelp review of my marriage.
The baby kicks during the scan. Tiny foot. Rude and perfect.
I laugh through tears.
“Attitude,” Lucia says.
“From her side,” I say automatically. Then I freeze. Her. It’s too early to be sure. But it lands in me soft and sure.
When the scan is finished, she prints a photo. I’m collecting tiny black-and-white evidence that my baby exists while my marriage collapses in color. Very artistic. Very annoying.
They take me back to the room. Rocco stands when the door opens. He looks at my face first. Not the paper in my hand. Not the monitor. Me.
“Baby is fine,” I say.
He grips the back of a chair. Hard. “Good.” The word barely comes out.
“They think it was ligament pain. Stress. Dehydration.”
His face changes at stress. Good. He should wear that word like a name tag.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
I nod. Once.
Rocco enters the room like every inch is borrowed. He doesn’t sit until I nod toward the chair by the wall. Not beside the bed. The wall. He takes it.
Matteo comes in after him because Lucia waves him in and because apparently this is my life now: my husband, my sister, and the bodyguard who quit, all standing around my hospital bed like the worst baby shower ever.
Claire hooks me to a monitor for a while, mostly to reassure everyone.
Rocco watches, swallowing orders. Matteo hands me the water again, opens the crackers because my hands shake when I’m scared. Rocco sees all of it, and his hands stay open on his knees. No orders. No threats.
Tiny, stupid, cracker-based progress.
Lucia leaves to call the bakery and yell at someone named Darren about covering her shift. Matteo steps out to talk to a nurse about discharge instructions.
Which leaves me alone with Rocco. Not alone-alone. The door is open. But alone enough.
Rocco leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“You heard the heartbeat again?”
I nod.
“Strong?”
“Strong.”
His eyes close. Pain moves across his face. I hate it less this time. Maybe because he’s sitting where I told him to sit. Maybe because I’m tired and the baby is fine and hating him properly requires energy I don’t currently have.
“I’m glad,” he says.
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“You looked angry.”
“I am angry.”
My spine stiffens. “At me?”
“No.” Fast. Immediate. Good. “At myself. At everyone who helped make this happen. At the fact that Matteo knows how you like your blanket folded and I didn’t know you were in pain until your sister texted me.”
There it is. Honest jealousy. Ugly and sitting in the light. But not thrown at me.