CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The soft, fragrant breeze of late May drifted through the open French doors of the Lockhart estate’s family den, carrying the scent of blooming jasmine and sea salt from the Atlantic. Inside, the atmosphere was a picture of ordinary, domestic warmth.
Kennedy sat at the plush, felt-lined card table, comfortably dressed in a pair of loose linen trousers and a soft oversized sweater.
At nearly nine months pregnant, she felt exhausted, and perfectly content.
Across from her, Aurora was expertly shuffling a deck of cards with the lethal precision of a casino dealer, her diamond wedding band flashing in the warm light of the table lamps.
Spencer sat in the chair beside his wife.
He wasn’t even looking at his own cards.
He was leaning back, one arm draped casually over the back of Aurora’s chair, watching her with a look of such helpless devotion that it bordered on comical.
Wherever Aurora was, Spencer orbited, pulled into her gravitational field.
A few feet away, Margaret and John Lockhart were settled onto the leather sofas, sharing a bottle of Bordeaux and quietly reading, occasionally chiming in to ruthlessly critique Spencer’s poker strategy.
"You’re going to lose, Spencer," Kennedy teased, taking a slow sip of her iced water. "You aren't even looking at your hand. She’s bluffing you."
"I am a Kensington, darling, we do not bluff. We simply adjust reality to suit our needs," Aurora corrected smoothly, dealing the cards with a sharp flick of her wrist. She threw a devastatingly beautiful smile at her husband. "And Spencer is playing perfectly."
"I am playing to survive," Spencer murmured, pressing a kiss to Aurora’s bare shoulder. "I know exactly what happens if I beat you, and I prefer sleeping in my own bed."
Kennedy laughed, the sound bright and unburdened.
It felt so incredibly good to just sit in this room and exist. After everything the families had endured over the past year—the catastrophic anniversary party, the horrific drugging, the agonizing accusations, and the bitter, exhausting fallout—this simple, familiar chaos felt like a miracle.
The estate was warm again. The shadows had finally been chased out.
Kennedy reached across the table to pick up her hand, shifting slightly in her chair to relieve the pressure on her lower back.
And then, it happened.
There was no cinematic warning, no slow build-up of cramps. Kennedy froze, a sudden, distinct popping sensation registering in her abdomen, immediately followed by a warm, undeniable rush of fluid soaking into her linen trousers.
The card slipped from her fingers, fluttering silently onto the green felt.
"Kennedy?" Aurora asked, immediately noting the sudden, terrifying pallor of her sister-in-law's face. "Are you alright?"
Kennedy looked up, her hazel eyes wide with a sudden, gripping panic. She gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles turning white. "Spencer. My water just broke."
For exactly one second, the room was perfectly, deathly silent.
And then, pandemonium erupted.
"Oh my God!" Aurora shrieked, throwing her cards into the air. She leaped from her chair, her European elegance vanishing instantly as she grabbed Spencer by the collar of his shirt. "Spencer, get up! Get the car! Call the hospital!"
Spencer sprang to his feet, knocking his chair backward onto the hardwood floor. The formidable, untouchable genius of industry looked terrified. "Right! The car! Mom, get her bags!"
Margaret was already moving, sprinting toward the grand staircase with a speed she hadn't utilized in two decades, while John rushed to Kennedy’s side, gently helping his daughter to her feet.
"Breathe, sweetheart, just breathe," John soothed, wrapping a strong, grounding arm around her waist as a sharp, agonizing contraction suddenly ripped through her abdomen. Kennedy let out a tight, breathless gasp, doubling over slightly.
"Where are my keys?!" Spencer yelled, frantically digging through his pockets as he practically dragged Aurora toward the foyer. "Aurora, find my keys! And call Ryder!"
"I am calling him!" Aurora yelled back, her fingers flying across the screen of her phone as she ran alongside him. She put the phone on speaker, the line ringing twice before it was answered.
"What?" Ryder’s voice crackled through the speaker, accompanied by the sound of a television in the background.
"Kennedy is in labor!" Aurora screamed into the phone. "We are putting her in the car right now! Get Grayson! Tell him to get to Boston Memorial immediately!"
"Holy shit!" Ryder yelled, the sound of glass shattering echoing over the line as he evidently knocked something over. "I'm getting him! Drive safe, Spencer!"
The ride to the hospital was a frantic, terrifying blur.
Spencer drove his SUV with a reckless, hyper-focused intensity, breaking at least a dozen traffic laws as they tore up the darkened interstate toward Boston.
The journey was made infinitely more chaotic by Aurora, who was twisted around in the passenger seat, simultaneously barking driving instructions at her husband and desperately trying to coach Kennedy through her breathing exercises.
In the backseat, Kennedy gripped the leather armrest, her eyes squeezed shut as another brutal wave of pain washed over her. She was terrified. The reality of the child, the finality of the moment, was crashing down on her with the force of a tidal wave.
By the time Spencer slammed the SUV into the emergency loading zone of the hospital, a team of nurses was already waiting with a wheelchair.
Kennedy was rushed through the sterile, brightly lit corridors of the maternity ward, the chaos of her family swirling around her. She was quickly admitted, transferred into a spacious delivery room, and hooked up to a symphony of beeping monitors.
Ten minutes later, the wooden door of the delivery room flew open.
Grayson burst into the room. He looked as though he had sprinted the entire distance from Rhode Island.
He wasn't wearing a tie, his hair was disheveled, and his chest was heaving.
The sheer, unadulterated terror in his eyes was paralyzing, but the moment his gaze locked onto Kennedy, lying pale and exhausted in the hospital bed, a shift occurred within him.
He stripped away every ounce of his own panic. He cast aside the billionaire CEO, the fractured history, and the lingering guilt, forcing himself to become the one thing she desperately needed in this room.
An anchor.
Grayson crossed the room, bypassing Spencer and Aurora, and moved directly to the side of Kennedy’s bed. He didn't ask for permission. He reached out, wrapping his large, warm hands securely around hers.
"I'm here," Grayson murmured, his voice a low, steady rumble that cut through the sterile noise of the machinery. He pressed a fervent kiss to her damp knuckles. "I've got you, Kennedy. I am right here."
Kennedy looked up at him, a fresh contraction tearing through her body. She let out a sharp, ragged cry, her fingers crushing his hand with agonizing force. She wanted to pull away, to maintain her independence, but the pain was too intense. She needed him, and he was, unconditionally there.
The labor stretched into hours of grueling, agonizing exhaustion.
Grayson never left her side. He remained on his feet, holding her hand, wiping the cool sweat from her forehead with a damp cloth, and murmuring endless streams of encouragement. He kept himself grounded for her sake, absorbing her pain without a single flinch.
As the hours dragged on and the exhaustion morphed into desperation, Kennedy began to unravel. The contractions were brutal, leaving her gasping and delirious.
"I can't do this!" Kennedy sobbed, thrashing her head against the pillows, her hazel eyes wild with pain as she glared up at him. "I hate this! You did this to me!"
Grayson didn't hesitate. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against the side of her head, surrendering himself to her fury.
"Yes, I know, my love," Grayson whispered, his voice thick with emotion and unwavering devotion. "I know. I did this to you. I’m sorry. I promise I will never do this again. I’ll do whatever you want."
He took every insult, every ragged scream, and every ounce of her displaced anger without a single complaint. He remained infinitely gentle, brushing her tangled hair back from her face, breathing with her, doing absolutely everything in his power to soothe the woman who held his entire heart.
"You're doing perfectly, Kennedy," Dr. Evans encouraged from the foot of the bed, her voice rising over the monitors. "One more big push. Just one more. He is right here."
"Look at me," Grayson commanded softly, his eyes locking onto hers, pulling her back from the edge of her exhaustion. "You are the strongest woman I have ever known. You can do this."
With a final, ragged scream that tore from the very depths of her soul, Kennedy pushed with absolutely everything she had left.
And then, a new sound pierced the quiet of the delivery room.
It was a sharp, furious, beautiful cry.
The tension in the room instantly snapped. Grayson’s breath hitched violently in his throat. He looked down as Dr. Evans gently laid the squalling, red, perfectly healthy infant onto Kennedy’s bare chest.
"He's here," Grayson choked out, the tears finally breaking free, spilling hot and fast down his cheeks. He collapsed into the chair beside the bed, burying his face in Kennedy’s shoulder, weeping openly as he wrapped his arms around both of them.
Kennedy let out a breathless, exhausted laugh, her own tears blurring her vision as she looked down at the tiny, wriggling life resting against her heart. Theodore "Theo" Lockhart Vale was here.