Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Seraphina
I wear nothing but a paper gown, perched on the examination table with my heart pounding as the technician moves the ultrasound wand across my still-flat abdomen.
Knox stands beside me, his eyes fixed on the screen with an intensity that should be unsettling but somehow isn't. The room is quiet except for the technician's occasional murmurs and the soft whirring of the equipment, the atmosphere charged with an emotion I'm not ready to name.
Then it happens—a rapid, rhythmic swooshing fills the room, and the technician smiles.
"There's your baby's heartbeat." Knox's hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining automatically, the gesture so natural I don't even think to pull away.
On the grainy screen, a tiny blob pulses with life—our child, the physical manifestation of a connection I've been fighting since the moment Knox interrupted my wedding.
And in that heartbeat, everything changes.
This isn't theoretical anymore. This is real.
A baby. Our baby. And the man beside me, whose eyes shine with unshed tears as he stares at the screen, isn't just my ex or my captor or the father of my child.
He's Knox. My Knox. And that realization terrifies me more than any helicopter rescue or island imprisonment ever could.
"Everything looks perfect," Dr. Cameron says, entering the room and studying the monitor with professional detachment. "Strong heartbeat, appropriate size for gestational age, proper implantation. You're carrying a very healthy baby, Ms. Vale."
Knox's grip on my hand tightens almost imperceptibly.
I risk a glance at his face and find him transformed—the hard lines of the ruthless businessman softened, a vulnerability in his expression I've rarely witnessed.
It's disconcerting to see him like this, stripped of his usual armor, nakedly emotional in a way that makes it harder to maintain my own defenses.
"When can we know the gender?" Knox asks, his voice steady despite the emotion evident in his eyes.
"Usually around sixteen to twenty weeks," Dr. Cameron replies. "Though with the advanced genetic testing Mr. Vance has arranged, we could know much sooner if you'd prefer."
Of course Knox has arranged advanced testing.
Of course he's ten steps ahead, planning, orchestrating, controlling every aspect of this pregnancy.
I should be irritated by his presumption.
Instead, I find myself oddly comforted by his thoroughness, his determination to ensure our baby has the best of everything from the very beginning.
What's happening to me?
The appointment concludes with prescriptions for prenatal vitamins, dietary recommendations, and a follow-up scheduled for two weeks later.
Throughout it all, Knox remains at my side, asking questions I haven't thought of, absorbing information with the same focused intensity he brings to multi-billion-dollar negotiations.
For him, this is equally important—perhaps more so.
In the car returning to the penthouse, silence stretches between us, both lost in our thoughts. The printout of the ultrasound rests in my hand, the grainy image of our baby—still more idea than person—somehow making everything more real than the positive tests or morning sickness ever did.
"You're quiet," Knox observes finally, his eyes on the Manhattan traffic flowing around us.
"Processing," I reply honestly. "It's…a lot."
"Yes." His hand covers mine where it rests on the seat between us. "But we'll handle it together."
Together. The word hangs between us, loaded with implications I'm still not ready to fully accept.
Three weeks in the penthouse, three weeks of careful distance maintained despite sharing space, despite the undeniable pull between us that grows stronger with each passing day.
Three weeks of Knox's patient campaign to reintegrate himself into every aspect of my life—professional, personal, now medical.
And it's working. God help me, it's working.
By the time we reach the penthouse, exhaustion has set in—emotional more than physical.
I retreat to the guest room that has become my sanctuary, my last stand against Knox's complete reoccupation of my life.
The space is comfortable, luxurious even, but deliberately impersonal.
I've made no effort to make it mine, to nest here, because doing so would acknowledge a permanence I'm still resisting.
I'm about to lie down when a discreet knock sounds at the door. Opening it, I find Marina, the housekeeper, holding several elegant boxes tied with ribbon.
"These just arrived for you, Ms. Vale," she says, extending them toward me.
"Thank you." I accept the stack, curiosity overriding fatigue. "Did Mr. Vance arrange these?"
Marina's smile is knowing. "He said you might need something more comfortable as your body changes."
Of course he did. Ever thoughtful, ever presumptuous Knox, addressing needs before I've fully acknowledged them myself.
I close the door, placing the boxes on the bed with mixed anticipation and wariness.
Knowing Knox, whatever these contain will be exquisitely chosen, perfectly suited to my taste, and yet another thread in the web he's weaving around me.
The first box reveals emerald green silk and lace, nestled in tissue paper.
I lift the lingerie set—bra and matching panties—marveling at the quality, the craftsmanship evident in every stitch.
Not regular lingerie, I realize as I examine the structure.
Maternity lingerie. Specifically designed to accommodate my changing body, to provide support where needed while maintaining the delicacy and sensuality of luxury undergarments.
The other boxes contain similar sets in different colors and styles—midnight blue, deep burgundy, classic black.
Each piece feels like water in my hands, impossibly soft, undeniably expensive.
The kind of lingerie designed to make a woman feel beautiful, desirable, even as her body transforms in ways beyond her control.
I should be offended. Should see this as yet another attempt by Knox to mark his territory, to remind me that my body's changes are due to him, to assert his claim over me in the most intimate way possible.
But as I hold the emerald set against myself, catching my reflection in the mirror, what I feel isn't indignation but… gratitude.
Because my body is changing. The bras I've been wearing are already uncomfortable, the waistbands of my pants increasingly tight.
I've been avoiding looking too closely in mirrors, uncomfortable with the visible evidence of how completely my life has been derailed.
And here's Knox, not just acknowledging those changes but celebrating them, providing not just practical solutions but beautiful ones.
Unable to resist, I strip off my clothes and try on the emerald set.
The fit is perfect—of course it is. The bra cups cradle my fuller breasts without constriction, the band soft against skin that's become increasingly sensitive.
The panties sit just below the barely-there curve of my stomach, neither digging in nor sliding down.
I turn sideways, examining my reflection critically.
There's a slight roundness to my lower abdomen now, a subtle fullness to my breasts, changes that have made me feel awkward, ungainly in my regular clothes.
But in this lingerie, designed specifically for a pregnant body, I look…
beautiful. Sensual. Womanly in a way that has nothing to do with conforming to standard beauty ideals and everything to do with the primal femininity of creating life.
As I adjust the bra strap, my fingers brush against something embroidered on the inside of the waistband. Looking closer, I find "Vance" stitched in thread that exactly matches the emerald silk, invisible from the outside but unmistakable to anyone wearing the garment.
Vance. His name literally sewn into underwear designed to cradle the body carrying his child.
It should feel presumptuous, possessive, infuriating.
Instead, a treacherous warmth spreads through me, a fluttering low in my belly that has nothing to do with the baby and everything to do with the man who put it there.
I try on each set, each fitting perfectly, each bearing that same hidden marking.
With each piece, the same conflicted emotions swirl—gratitude for the thoughtfulness, for how beautiful they make me feel, mixed with resistance to the obvious claiming, the clear message that Knox considers me his in every way that matters.
The black set is the most revealing, clearly designed for something beyond practical support.
Sheer lace panels, strategic cutouts, a design that showcases rather than conceals.
The implications are clear—Knox doesn't just want me comfortable as my body changes; he wants me feeling desirable. Wanted. His.
And the most troubling realization? It's working.
Standing before the mirror in lingerie he's chosen, bearing his name against my skin, I feel both completely possessed and utterly cherished.
Protected and desired in equal measure. Safe within the fortress of his attention while still burning under the heat of his gaze.
I've never had this before—this specific combination of security and passion.
Richard made me feel safe but never consumed by desire.
Previous boyfriends provided excitement but never stability.
Only Knox has ever given me both, has ever made me feel simultaneously sheltered and ignited, protected and pursued.
That's what makes him so dangerous. That's what made me run eighteen months ago. The totality of what he offers—everything I need, everything I want, everything I fear becoming addicted to. Because when Knox Vance loves you, it's not with half measures. It's complete. Overwhelming. All-consuming.
I'm still wearing the black set when a soft knock sounds at the door again.
"Seraphina?" Knox's voice, controlled but with an underlying tension that suggests he knows exactly what I'm doing. "Dinner in thirty minutes. I've had your favorite brought in from Massimo's."
My heart races as I stand frozen, separated from him by nothing but a wooden door and the last remnants of my resistance.
I could open it. Could let him see the evidence of his gift on my body, could watch his eyes darken with the desire I know would be there, could surrender to the inevitable pull between us that grows stronger with each passing day.
Instead, I clear my throat, fighting for composure. "I'll be there. Thank you."
His footsteps retreat down the hallway, and I release the breath I've been holding. Not yet. Not today. I'm not ready to concede everything, to admit that he's winning this war of attrition he's been waging since the moment he carried me from the altar.
But as I carefully return the lingerie to its boxes, keeping out the emerald set to wear tomorrow, I can't deny the truth any longer: I'm melting for him.
For his attention to detail. For the way he makes me feel beautiful even as my body changes.
For his unwavering desire that hasn't diminished with my pregnancy but seems to have intensified, as if watching me grow with his child only makes me more captivating to him.
I dress in comfortable clothes for dinner, but beneath them, I'm acutely aware of what I now know—that resistance is becoming increasingly futile.
That Knox is patiently, methodically dismantling every defense I've built against him.
That sooner rather than later, I'll find myself back in his bed, back in his arms, back where my body already knows it belongs.
The most terrifying part? I'm starting not to mind.