Chapter Thirty-Five
Seraphina
Never Be The Same – Camila Cabello
I’ve just finished drying my hair when the bedroom door opens and Trey walks in carrying a tray.
I settle onto the bed, the white dress I chose floating softly around my knees. He crosses the room and sets the tray beside me with surprising care, like the moment matters more than the movement. He lifts a glass of orange juice and hands it to me.
“You look beautiful, baby.”
Warmth blooms across my cheeks, impossible to stop. “Thank you.”
My gaze drops to the fruit he’s prepared, neat and thoughtful. I pick up a strawberry, bringing it to my lips.
“There was also a watermelon, but I thought it might curb your appetite.” He says, watching the first strawberry disappear.
The shift in him is instant.
His eyes darken, his jaw tightening as he takes a slow step back, then another.
“I can’t even watch you eat breakfast without getting hard,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair.
A laugh slips out of me, light and unguarded.
“Stay right there, sweetheart,” he adds, already backing toward the closet. “Don’t move. I’m going to get changed. If you so much as twitch in my direction, I’m going to end up twitching my way inside you.”“Trey,” I laugh, shaking my head, “you really are impossible.”
Something low and indistinct comes from the closet. Probably a response, but I can’t quite catch it.
I take another bite of fruit, smiling to myself.
I’m happy.
Nervous, too.
Because today…we get to see our baby.
We’re in Trey’s truck—his pride and joy, Black Betty—large, black, and imposing in a way that feels entirely like him.
I’m fairly certain he once told me it’s some kind of Harley-Davidson special edition, although it’s hard to keep track when he tends to flood me with information and expect me to just keep up.
He follows the security convoy down the drive, the engine growling low beneath us as the trees blur past the windows, and the closer we get to the gates, the tighter something pulls in my chest, unease creeping in as we leave the enclosure and relative safety our home provides.
I don’t like heading out—not like this—but it’s important, and we can’t stay holed up forever.
There are people there.
Too many of them.
Signs. Cameras. Voices I can’t quite make out, but I feel them anyway, pressing in.
I don’t know these people at all, but they have been whipped into a fury.
With signs telling me to leave Trey, to head back, for Trey to die, repent, save our souls…
too many to count, some have quotes, twisting love and acceptance into hate, the way I now know my father did.
They don’t know me, they certainly don’t know Trey, and I find myself getting angry just thinking of the scorn he is receiving because of me.
Trey curses under his breath.
“Some of those people holding those signs are so young...”
His hand drops to my thigh, while his other grips the steering wheel so hard I can see the white of his knuckles. “Seeing it makes me sick.”
Guards on foot move forward, stewarding the crowd so there is no accident.
“Heh…if one of those Bible thumpers step out of line, they are going to be Bible thumped.” My pulse climbs as we inch forward.
Two SUVs surge ahead of us. Two fall in behind. The formation locks in, swallowing us into motion.
Only then does Trey ease slightly, just enough that I notice the difference. The tension doesn’t disappear, but it reshapes itself into focus.
My breathing starts to slow again.
I glance at him.
“You look handsome,” I say quietly.
He’s wearing a white shirt, the first four buttons undone, his tattoos spilling up his neck in dark contrast against the fabric. There’s something unfair about how good he looks.
He smirks, eyes flicking to me for a second before returning to the road.
“Why, Mrs. Baker, are you trying to get into your husband’s pants again?” he says, sounding scandalized.
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. “What?”
He shakes his head slightly, like he’s amused with himself. “Damn,” he smirks, “I guess not.”
We’ve been driving for about twenty minutes when the clinic rises out of polished stone and tinted glass.
Our convoy of Black SUVs line the curb.
Not unusual for Los Angeles. Not for us.
But the presence of security, subtle, sharp-eyed, hands brushing earpieces as we step out of Trey’s SUV, tightens something low in my chest. It follows us inside, invisible but undeniable, like a shadow stitched to our heels.
My hand finds my stomach before I even realize I’m doing it.
It’s instinct now. Constant. Protective.
Trey’s hand settles at the small of my back the second we clear the entrance, guiding me forward with a quiet kind of possession that has nothing to do with control and everything to do with keeping me steady. His thumb brushes slow circles against my spine as we walk.
He doesn’t let go.
Not when we check in.
Not when we’re led to the waiting room.
Not even when we sit.
The space is soft. Muted beige, low lighting, the faint scent of lavender drifting through the air. Carefully curated calm. A world away from everything waiting outside those doors.
Other couples sit scattered around the room.
A woman flipping through a baby name book.
A man whispering something that makes his partner laugh softly.
I notice a few of the expectant mothers looking at Trey like they might if a wild jungle cat had just walked in, but other than that, the place is peaceful.Normal.
The word feels foreign in my chest.
My fingers curl tighter in Trey’s, and he shifts closer instantly, his thigh pressing to mine, his presence a solid wall at my side. I feel his gaze before I look at him.
“I’m okay,” I whisper.
“I know,” he murmurs, but his thumb brushes my knuckles like he doesn’t quite believe it.
A nurse appears in the doorway. “Mr. and Mrs. Bien?” she asks.
I pay no attention at first, not until Trey starts to move, because he doesn’t do sitting still for long.
“That’s actually us, Dove. I wasn’t going to put our real names down.”
“Oh, really?”
We stand, following the nurse down a narrow corridor.
“Why Bien?” I ask, keeping my voice low, confusion threading through it.
“Oh…” He flashes me that roguish smile. “It was the winning name I pulled from my cap before I booked us. Sounds like très bien—French for very good.” He chuckles softly. “Other options ranged from Mr. and Mrs. Smith to Motherfuckers.”
My eyes widen.
“It all worked out, though, right?”
The exam room is bright, clinical, the air cooler than the waiting area. I perch on the edge of the chair while Trey stands close.
The nurse smiles gently as she pulls up my chart.
“Alright, Mrs. Bien, I’m going to ask you a few questions before we get started.”
I nod, my fingers curling instinctively around Trey’s wrist.
“First day of your last menstrual period?”
I give her the date, my voice steady even though my pulse isn’t.
“Any prior pregnancies?”
“No.”
The word feels heavier than it should.
“Are you currently taking any medications?”
“No.”
“Any allergies?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
She nods, typing, then glances up again. “Any significant medical history I should be aware of?”
I actually don’t know how to answer, my memory on it is spotty at best.
“N-not to my knowledge.” I say carefully.
The nurse doesn’t push.
She just nods.
“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“Drink alcohol?”
“Only on special occasions.”
“And stress levels?”
There’s a single second where the question hangs in the air, almost absurd in its simplicity.
Trey lets out a low, humorless huff beside me. “Where do you want us to start?”
The nurse’s lips twitch—not quite a smile, but understanding passes between them.
She nods once and moves on.
“Have you experienced any bleeding or cramping?”
“No.”
“Any nausea?”
I hesitate. “A little.”
“Fatigue?”
“Yes.”
“Any dizziness or fainting episodes?”
My fingers tighten slightly around Trey’s wrist. “Once.”
His hand slides over my shoulder immediately, covering it.
The nurse notes it down. “That can be normal in early pregnancy, but we’ll keep an eye on it.”
She stands. “Let’s get your vitals.”
I watch as she moves around her desk getting what she needs.
A blood pressure cuff tightens around my arm, squeezing until it borders on uncomfortable. I watch the numbers flicker across the small screen, my heartbeat loud in my ears.
Trey watches it with a frown.
The second the cuff releases, his fingers brush over my arm like he’s checking for damage.
“Sounded like it was going to pop at one point.” He grumbles.
“I’m fine,” I murmur again.
His gaze lifts to mine, before he nods once.
“I’m going to need to draw some blood,” she says gently. I nod silently, taking slow, deep breaths. I look away as the needle slides in, a quick sting followed by a dull pressure. The vial fills with dark red, and Trey goes very still beside me.
If I didn’t know him, I’d miss it.
But I feel the tension in him.
His thumb drags slowly across my shoulder.
The nurse tapes a small piece of gauze to my arm. “We’ll run a full prenatal panel,” she explains. “Check your hormone levels—hCG, make sure everything is progressing as expected.”
I nod, even though my focus is already drifting.
Toward the next room.
Toward what comes next.
The doctor enters with an easy confidence.
“Mrs. Bien, It’s nice to meet you.”
She reviews my chart quickly, then looks up.
“Based on your symptoms and the timeline you’ve given us, everything sounds consistent with early pregnancy,” she says. “We’ll confirm gestational age with an ultrasound today.”
Trey’s hand tightens around mine as we follow her into a back room.
The room is darker this time.
Dimmed lights.
A quiet hum of machinery.
I lie back on the exam table, the paper beneath me crinkling softly as I shift. Trey stays at my side, one hand braced on the edge of the table, the other wrapped tightly around mine.
The technician smiles gently.
“You might feel a little cold,” she says.
She isn’t wrong.
The gel hits my skin and I flinch slightly at the temperature, a sharp contrast against the warmth of Trey’s touch.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice low, steady. “I’ve got you.”
The wand presses lightly against my abdomen.
The monitor flickers.
Static.
Shadows.
My heart climbs into my throat. “There’s the gestational sac,” the technician says softly, pointing to the screen.
I stare.
Trying to understand what I’m seeing. It looks grainy, like a damaged, old TV set we had at the rectory for years.
“And right there…” She adjusts the angle slightly. “That’s your baby.”
My breathing stutters.
“Measuring at approximately nine weeks and three days.”
Nine weeks.
Three days.
The words settle into me slowly, like they’re searching for somewhere to belong.
“And here—” she tilts the wand again, and suddenly there’s movement, fast, rhythmic, “that flicker? That’s the heartbeat.” A whooshing sound fills the room.
My breath catches so hard it almost hurts.
Tears blur my vision before I even realize they’ve spilled free.
My fingers tighten around Trey’s, gripping him like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.
I turn my head.
His eyes are locked on the screen as he makes sense of it all, studying every detail. “That’s…” His voice is quieter than I’ve ever heard it. “That’s our baby?”
My chest aches.
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “That’s ours.”
His grip on my hand tightens.
The technician hands me a small stack of printed images a few minutes later.
Three tiny snapshots of something that already feels like everything.
“We’ll have you start prenatal vitamins,” she says gently. “We’ll schedule your next appointment in a few weeks. And try to avoid unnecessary stress.”
Trey lets out a quiet breath beside me, something almost like a laugh.
I manage a small one too.
Because unnecessary doesn’t exist in our world.