Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Vesper
The door swings open, and a woman in a white coat steps inside, flipping through a chart like she’s walking into any ordinary appointment instead of the moment that’s been stalking me for weeks.
“Good morning,” she says, warm and efficient. She looks up and smiles. “I’m Jane, your technician. And you must be Vesper.”
I nod, and my mouth goes dry like my body just remembered it’s supposed to be afraid.
Jane’s gaze shifts to the two men flanking me like a human wall. “And you are?”
“Callaway,” Cally says easily—too easily, like he’s not sitting beside a half-naked woman under a paper sheet. He gestures toward Monty. “That’s Alberto.”
Monty gives a clipped nod. No grin or charm. It’s as if he’s holding himself in place by force.
Jane nods once and turns back to me. “Okay. I’m here so we can meet your little one for the first time.”
My stomach rolls. “Meet” is such a friendly word. Like we’re heading to brunch. As if my life isn’t dangling on a screen.
She snaps on gloves. “Since it’s still early, we’ll be doing a transvaginal sonogram.”
I nod like I didn’t already hear that sentence earlier and briefly consider faking my own death.
“Have you had one before?” she asks gently.
I shake my head. “Nope. First time. New experiences. Love them. Huge fan.”
Cally makes a sound that could be a cough or a laugh. He tries to play it off by clearing his throat, but I see the way his eyes crease.
Monty doesn’t laugh. Monty just watches me like he’s taking notes on every tremor in my voice.
“All right,” Jane says, “I’m going to help position your legs to make things more comfortable.”
She pulls out two cushioned straps from the sides of the table, adjusting them over my bent knees.
I look down.
Then I look at Cally.
Then I look at Monty.
They are watching this unfold like a documentary titled How Vesper Lafontaine Loses Her Last Shred of Dignity.
“You can still leave,” I suggest, and my voice jumps an octave.
Cally’s lips twitch. “I wouldn’t miss this weird show for the world. I’m just sad I forgot snacks.”
“Callaway,” Monty warns.
“This is weird,” I hiss. “Don’t make it weirder.”
Cally’s eyes soften, humor fading into something gentler. “Okay,” he says quietly, like he heard the fear under my words. “Okay.”
Jane adjusts the screen, then looks back at me. “All right, Vesper. I’m going to insert this now. You might feel some pressure, but it shouldn’t be painful. Tell me if you need me to adjust anything.”
I suck in a breath and grip the edge of the table. My fingers curl hard into the paper.
“I have never been more aware of myself,” I say, voice shaking just enough to annoy me.
Monty leans in slightly, not touching but close, like he’s bracing. “You want me to distract you?” he murmurs. “I could list the top five burgers in America in a movie-trailer voice.”
I glare at him through my panic. “If you say another word, I will rip these straps off and take you out with one.”
His mouth almost curves—almost. “Noted.”
Jane chuckles softly. “You’re doing great.”
And then she turns the screen toward me.
“There it is,” she says.
I blink, brain lagging behind reality. “Where?”
Jane points with one gloved finger. “Right here. That little shape.”
It’s tiny.
Definitely not a baby the way my brain insists a baby should look. No cute cheeks. No toes. Just a small curled form—like a little bean with ambition.
And then—thump-thump-thump.
A low, rhythmic sound fills the room. Deep and fast and impossibly sure of itself.
My entire body goes still.
My vision goes watery in a way that makes me furious, because I am not a crier, and yet here I am, about to cry because a sound is happening.
“That,” Jane says, voice softening, “is the heartbeat.”
My breath slips out of me like I’ve been holding it for weeks.
“That’s . . . it?” My voice wobbles. “That sound that’s loud and so real?”
Jane nods, adjusting the image so it sharpens. “Yes. See the head? It’s proportionally bigger right now because the brain is developing quickly. And these little nubs—those are the early arms and legs.”
I stare like if I stare hard enough, I’ll understand how my body did this without asking permission.
A sound escapes me—half laugh, half sob—and I hate how raw it is.
Cally makes a noise beside me, and when I glance over, he’s not grinning.
He’s frozen.
His hand is still wrapped around mine, but his grip has changed. Tighter. Like he’s holding on because he needs to, not because he thinks I do.
His eyes are on the screen, glassy and stunned, like he’s seeing a future he didn’t let himself imagine.
Monty leans in closer on my other side, and the air around him shifts. He doesn’t crowd me, doesn’t touch me yet, but he’s there—so present it’s almost physical.
“That’s it?” he whispers, voice barely audible.
The way he says it is not casual. It’s reverent, as if the words got caught on something inside him.
“A little miracle,” Cally says, and surprisingly, it doesn’t sound like a joke.
I wait for the humor, the deflection. For Cally to crack something stupid and bright, for Monty to lock his face down and retreat into silence.
Instead, Cally’s free hand lifts to his mouth like he’s trying to keep himself from making a sound. His eyes dart to me and back to the screen, like he can’t decide which is more overwhelming: the heartbeat or the fact that I’m the one carrying it.
Monty’s jaw flexes once. His gaze doesn’t leave the monitor, and his hand—his big, strong hand—hovers near my hip like he wants to touch me but is asking permission without words.
My chest hurts in a way that has nothing to do with my lungs.
I blink hard, and tears spill anyway. Ugh.
Cally notices immediately. He shifts closer, careful around the paper sheet, and presses a kiss to my temple—soft, quick, like he’s trying not to scare me with tenderness.
“You’re okay,” he whispers, like he’s saying it to himself too.
Monty moves then. He leans in and presses his forehead to mine for a brief second, as if he needs that contact to convince himself this is real. His breath warms my skin.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he murmurs.
I nod against him because if I speak, I’ll lose it completely.
His fingers slide to my waist—barely there, a touch that lingers a moment longer than necessary, as if he’s memorizing me. As if he’s promising something without saying the words.
And I feel it.
I feel how much they love me—how it lives in small gestures and stupid gum, small touches, and the way they showed up and refused to leave.
For one terrifying second, I want to believe this can be mine.
Both of them.
A home. A family. A future where I don’t have to run first just to prove I can.
My gaze drifts from the screen to their faces—Cally’s open devotion, Monty’s contained intensity—and my heart does something reckless.
It reaches.
And right behind that reaching comes the fear.
How long will this last?
How long before they remember they’re still angry at each other?
How long until someone decides this is too complicated and walks away?
Because I know how stories go when you want something this much.
But the heartbeat keeps going—fast, determined, undeniable—and it dares me to accept what I’m seeing.
It dares me to stay.