24. Lili
Lili
" E dward Grosvenor, if you don't quit wearing a hole in that floor, I swear on my Mama's sweet tea recipe I'm gonna throw something at your perfectly styled head," I panted between contractions, gripping the hospital bed rails like they were the only things keeping me tethered to earth.
My fiancé—still felt like a miracle saying that—froze mid-stride in his designer suit that somehow looked impeccable even after twelve hours in a hospital waiting room.
His gray eyes were wild with the kind of panic that would've been hilarious if I wasn't currently trying to push two tiny humans out of my body.
"Perhaps I should ring Dr. Harrison once more? Surely there must be some development we should be apprised of—" he asked for the fifteenth time in an hour.
"Edward, sugar, the only development is that your children are apparently as stubborn as their daddy," I said, then sucked in a sharp breath as another contraction hit.
It felt like someone was trying to turn me inside out with a medieval torture device, but somehow I was supposed to breathe through it like it was a yoga class from hell. "Sweet merciful Jesus on a bicycle."
That's when Victoria chose to make her grand entrance, sweeping into the delivery room like she was arriving at the opera instead of witnessing the birth of her grandchildren.
She took one look at the medical reality of childbirth, made a sound like air escaping from a balloon, and crumpled to the floor in a heap of designer silk and wounded dignity .
"Mother!" Edward rushed to her side while I stared at the ceiling and wondered if this was really my life now – she was supposed to be the only experienced Mother in this very room.
"Well," Dr. Harrison turned up with the sort of unflappable calm that made me understand why royalty trusted her with their most precious moments, "that's a first."
As they wheeled Victoria out to recover from her dramatic introduction to grandMotherhood, I couldn't help but think about how none of this—not the chaos, not the comedy, not the overwhelming love—had been part of Edward's meticulously planned preparation for parenthood.
The past seven months had been a whirlwind of preparation that somehow felt both perfectly planned and completely chaotic.
Edward had thrown himself into nursery design with the same intensity he usually reserved for corporate takeovers, spending every spare moment between merger meetings either shopping for tiny clothes or sketching furniture arrangements.
I'd come home from Jackson's Garden Centers meetings to find him surrounded by fabric swatches and paint samples, his usually pristine study transformed into what looked like a pastel explosion.
"Darling," he'd said one evening, holding up two nearly identical shades of yellow, "do you think 'Buttercup Dream' or 'Sunshine Whisper' would be more conducive to infant sleep patterns?"
"Honey," I'd replied, settling onto his lap despite my growing belly making everything awkward, "I think our babies are going to be more concerned with getting fed than with whether their walls are the perfect shade of yellow."
But that was Edward—meticulous, devoted, and absolutely determined to create the perfect environment for our children.
He'd researched cribs like he was preparing for trial, interviewed nannies with the thoroughness of a background check for state secrets, and somehow managed to design a nursery that was both practical and beautiful.
The room he'd created was a masterpiece of buttercream yellows and sage greens, with afternoon sunlight filtering through gauze curtains that made everything look like it was dusted with gold.
The carpet was so thick you could lose your toes in it, and everything smelled like lavender sachets and new beginnings—two cribs positioned perfectly to catch the morning light, a rocking chair that had belonged to his grandMother, and shelves lined with books he'd already started reading aloud to my belly during his evening "briefing sessions" with the babies.
"You know they can't actually understand corporate law yet," I'd teased one night, watching him explain the finer points of merger agreements to my stomach.
"It's never too early to begin their education," he'd replied with complete seriousness, then immediately switched to reading "Goodnight Moon" in the same formal tone he used for closing arguments.
Watching him prepare for Fatherhood had been like watching a man discover a part of himself he'd never known existed. Between board meetings and client calls, he'd managed to become an expert on everything from swaddle techniques to the optimal room temperature for newborn sleep.
He was busy, certainly, but there was a lightness to him that hadn't been there before—like he'd finally found something worth all his careful planning.
Now, as I watched him trying to revive his Mother while Dr. Harrison calmly continued her examination, I couldn't help but think that all his preparation might not have accounted for Lady Victoria's theatrical timing.
"Mr. Grosvenor," Dr. Harrison said, her voice cutting through the chaos, "I believe your attention might be better focused on your wife at the moment."
Edward's head snapped up, and I saw the exact moment when everything else faded away except me and what was happening. He was back at my side in an instant, his hand finding mine.
"How are we doing, love?" he asked, his voice gentle despite the controlled panic in his eyes.
"Well, sugar, I'm about to give birth to twins while your Mama provides floor entertainment," I managed between pants. "So I'd say we're having ourselves quite the Tuesday."
What happened next was like something out of a comedy sketch, if comedy sketches involved excruciating pain and the most overwhelming love I'd ever experienced.
Dr. Harrison had somehow managed to get Victoria upright and stationed in a chair far enough away that she couldn't faint on anything important, while Edward held my hand and provided what he probably thought was helpful commentary.
"You're doing magnificently, darling," he said as I squeezed his hand hard enough to probably leave permanent damage. "Absolutely brilliant."
"Edward Grosvenor," I panted, "if you use one more big word to describe what's happening to my body right now, I'm going to—"
"The first baby is crowning," Dr. Harrison announced with professional excitement.
And suddenly, everything else fell away. The pain, the chaos, Victoria's dramatic performance in the corner—none of it mattered because our first child was about to enter the world.
"One more push, Lili," Dr. Harrison encouraged. "Just one more."
I pushed with everything I had, Edward's hand anchoring me to reality, and then—a cry. The most beautiful, indignant little cry I'd ever heard.
"Baby A," Dr. Harrison announced, lifting a tiny, perfect little person for us to see. "It's a girl."
"A girl," Edward whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "We have a daughter."
I was crying before I realized it, reaching out to touch the tiny face that looked impossibly small and absolutely perfect. Our daughter. Our little girl who had Edward's stubborn chin and what looked like it might be my unruly hair.
"She's beautiful," I sobbed, not caring that I probably looked like I'd been hit by a truck. "Edward, look at her. Just look at her."
But there wasn't time for proper introductions because Baby B was apparently impatient to make an entrance.
"And here comes the second one," Dr. Harrison said. "Much more eager than the first."
"That's my boy," Edward said, then immediately looked panicked. "Not that I'm assuming gender, of course. I simply meant—"
"Edward," I laughed despite the pain, "shut up and help me have your son."
Because somehow I knew, even before Dr. Harrison confirmed it minutes later. Our little boy who came into the world with significantly less drama than his sister, but with the same perfect tiny features and Edward's already-serious expression.
"Baby B, and it's a boy," Dr. Harrison announced, and I swear I heard Victoria sniffle from her corner.
"Twins," Edward said wonderingly, staring at our children like they were the most miraculous things he'd ever seen. Which, frankly, they were. "We have twins."
"Henry and Charlotte," I said, the names we'd chosen months ago suddenly feeling absolutely right. "Henry Edward and Charlotte Rose."
"After my grandFather and your Mother," Edward said softly, his eyes shining. "Perfect."
The first time I held both babies at once, I understood why people wrote poetry about parenthood. There weren't adequate words for the fierce, overwhelming love that crashed over me like a tidal wave. I'd thought I understood love before—the way I loved Edward, the way I loved my Mama.
But this was something primal and fierce, like my heart had suddenly expanded to three times its normal size and was somehow beating outside my chest in two tiny bodies.
These tiny people—our tiny people—were already perfect and complete, like they'd been waiting their whole lives to finally meet us.
Edward sat beside me on the hospital bed, his arm around my shoulders as we both stared at our children in amazement.
Henry was already showing signs of his Father's serious nature, studying everything with those gray eyes that were definitely Grosvenor.
Charlotte was more like me—already making faces and what looked suspiciously like attempts at conversation.
"They're so small," Edward whispered, like speaking too loudly might somehow damage them.
"They're perfect," I corrected, adjusting Charlotte's tiny pink hat. "Look at these little fingers. And these perfect little noses."
"May I?" Victoria's voice was tentative, so unlike her usual commanding presence that we both looked up in surprise.
She was standing a few feet away, looking uncertain and almost vulnerable. The woman who had orchestrated corporate takeovers and social manipulations was asking permission to meet her grandchildren.