9. Anya #3
The next morning, I arrive at the clinic to find Jones reviewing patient files at his desk, Eric charming the front desk staff into laughter, and Vincent organizing something in the conference room.
Normal morning routine, except for the way Jones looks up when I pass his office door, the quick check to make sure I'm eating the breakfast he insisted I bring, the subtle attention that's become his new default.
Eric appears with coffee—decaf, because Vincent researched caffeine limits during pregnancy—and Vincent emerges from the conference room with an updated schedule that somehow gives me longer lunch breaks and eliminates the late evening appointments I used to handle alone.
They're taking care of me. All three of them, in their own ways, making sure this pregnancy is as easy and stress-free as possible.
At lunch, while we're sharing Thai food in the conference room again, I decide to address the elephant in the room.
"So," I say, twirling pad thai around my fork. "The three-month deal technically ended yesterday."
Three pairs of eyes focus on me with varying degrees of amusement.
"Did it?" Eric asks, and his tone suggests he finds this information mildly interesting but not particularly relevant.
"That was the arrangement. Three months, then I get my inheritance and you help me with the business plan."
"And?" Jones raises an eyebrow like he's waiting for me to make a point.
"And I'm still here. Still working. Still sitting in your conference room eating lunch with you." I gesture around the table. "This doesn't feel very temporary."
Vincent sets down his chopsticks and looks at me with that steady gaze that sees everything. "Do you want it to be temporary?"
The question hangs in the air between us. Simple words that cut straight to the heart of what we're all thinking but haven't said out loud.
"I'm pregnant with your baby," I point out instead of answering directly. "I'm pretty sure that makes the situation permanently complicated."
"Complicated," Eric repeats, like he's tasting the word. "Is that what you call this?"
"What would you call it?"
"Family."
The word lands softly, but it reverberates through the quiet conference room like something substantial settling into place.
"The three-month deal was never really about three months," Jones says, and there's no apology in his voice. "It was about keeping you."
"And you let us," Vincent adds.
I look around the table at these three men who've somehow become the center of my entire world. Jones with his protective intensity, Eric with his easy warmth, Vincent with his quiet steadiness.
The fathers of the baby I'm carrying. The people I want to build a life with.
"Yeah," I admit. "I did."
Eric's smile could power the entire building. "Good. Because we weren't planning on letting you go anyway."
"Even if I'd wanted to leave?"
"Especially then." Jones reaches across the table to cover my hand with his. "But you don't want to leave."
It's not a question. He knows me well enough by now to recognize the truth I'm still learning to admit out loud.
"No," I say. "I don't want to leave."
The relief on their faces is almost comical. Like they were genuinely worried I might still try to walk away, despite the pregnancy and the house hunting and the way we've been building something together that feels too solid to abandon.
"So what happens now?" I ask.
"Now," Vincent says, pulling out his phone and scrolling through what appears to be an extensive list, "we finalize the house paperwork, schedule your next doctor appointment, and start researching pediatricians."
"And baby-proof the house," Eric adds. "Even though we have months before that's necessary."
"And make sure you're eating enough protein," Jones concludes, eyeing my half-finished lunch with obvious disapproval.
I look at my phone and see seventeen text messages from Eric in the last hour, all containing links to baby-related items he thinks we need to consider.
Vincent has apparently created a shared calendar that includes every prenatal appointment for the next nine months.
Jones has already added "interview pediatricians" to his task list for this weekend.
Three months ago, the idea of these men controlling any aspect of my life would have sent me running in the opposite direction.
Now, watching them plan our future with the same careful attention they bring to everything else, I feel nothing but gratitude.
They're not trying to control me. They're trying to take care of me. There's a difference, and it's everything.
"You realize," I say, finishing the last of my lunch under Jones's watchful eye, "that you're all going to be completely insufferable for the next seven months."
"Probably," Eric agrees cheerfully.
"Definitely," Vincent corrects.
"And you're going to let us," Jones adds, and it's not a question.
I think about the house with the built-in bookshelves and the reading nook. About the nursery we haven't decorated yet but that I can already picture perfectly. About the three men who've somehow convinced me that the future I never planned is exactly what I want.
"Yeah," I say, and the certainty in my own voice surprises me. "I am."