Chapter 1 - The Diagnosis in Room 412
The sterile scent of antiseptic and polished chrome hit the back of my throat, threatening to bring up whatever small amounts of water I had managed to keep down that morning. I sat on the examination table wrapped in a thin paper gown that felt entirely too flimsy against the bitter Chicago draft pressing against the double-paned windows. Across the small, private room, Dorian stood near the door. He had not taken off his dark wool overcoat. He stood with his broad shoulders squared, his hands tucked deep into his pockets, his posture resembling a sentinel guarding a prison cell he had no intention of ever unlocking.
Dr. Elaine Mercer flipped through the digital chart on her tablet, her silver-rimmed glasses catching the harsh glare of the overhead lighting. She looked up from the screen, her eyes shifting from me to Dorian, and then back to me with a calm, practiced empathy that only made my nerves hum louder.
“Well, Mrs. Cross,” Dr. Mercer said, setting the tablet down on the counter with a soft click. “Your blood pressure is slightly elevated, which isn’t unusual given the circumstances, and your electrolytes show mild dehydration from the morning sickness. But I think we have a very clear picture of why you’ve been feeling unwell over the past few weeks.”
My throat tightened. I swallowed hard, staring down at my bare feet dangling off the edge of the examination table. “It’s stress,” I said, my voice sounding smaller than I intended. “I’ve been moving out of my home, dealing with legal paperwork, not sleeping—”
“It’s not stress,” Dr. Mercer interrupted gently, a faint, understanding smile touching the corners of her mouth. “Or at least, stress isn't the primary factor. Alina, you’re pregnant. Based on our initial blood work and the hormone levels, you are roughly eight weeks along.”
The words hung in the air, suspended between the medical cabinets and the sterile floor, heavy enough to crush the breath right out of my lungs.
Eight weeks.
I did the math in my head before I could stop myself. Eight weeks ago would have been right around the time Dorian stopped coming home for dinner entirely. Eight weeks ago would have been the middle of November, when the first heavy snows hit the city and the distance between us had already grown wide enough to swallow a marriage whole.
I didn't feel a rush of maternal joy. I didn't feel a wave of miraculous warmth. All I felt was a cold, terrifying panic spreading outward from my chest like ink in water.
A baby.
I glanced up slowly, my gaze drifting across the room to Dorian.
He hadn't moved. The dark intensity in his eyes was blinding. For a second—just a fraction of a second—the mask of absolute control slipped. His jaw tightened so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek, and his chest rose in a deep, sharp inhalation.
“Eight weeks,” Dorian repeated, his voice dangerously low, almost a whisper.
“That’s correct, Mr. Cross,” Dr. Mercer replied, glancing between us, picking up on the heavy, suffocating static in the room. “Given your wife’s history of fatigue and the mild complications from stress, I want to schedule an early ultrasound to confirm fetal heartbeat and viability. We need to be very careful over the next few months. No heavy lifting, strict dietary adjustments, and mandatory rest.”
Dorian nodded once, a sharp, commanding movement. “Arrange it. The best equipment, the best specialists. Whatever is required.”
“Dorian, no,” I snapped, finally finding my voice, my hands gripping the edge of the examination table so hard my knuckles turned white. “You don't get to manage this. You don't get to take over my medical care just because—”
“Just because you are carrying my child?” Dorian finished for me, his voice cutting through the room like a steel blade. He stepped forward, closing the distance between us in three long strides until he was standing right beside the table. He didn't touch me, but the sheer heat radiating from his large frame filled my entire space. “The divorce is canceled, Alina. That was settled before we left the lawyer's office. And now this changes everything else.”
“It doesn't change anything!” I choked out, tears of frustration finally pricking at the corners of my eyes. “We were signing papers twenty minutes ago! We haven’t spoken a real word to each other in six months! You live in your offices and your shadows, and I’ve been sitting in an empty apartment staring at walls! I am not bringing a child into this broken life!”
Dr. Mercer cleared her throat awkwardly, taking a step toward the door. “I’ll... I’ll give you two a moment. Nurse will be in shortly with the discharge instructions and to schedule the follow-up.”
The door clicked shut, leaving Dorian and me alone in the sterile box of the examination room.
May you like
Dorian reached out, his large, warm hand gripping my chin with gentle, irresistible firmness, forcing me to look up into his dark, unreadable eyes.
“Listen to me very carefully, Alina,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, steady and absolute. “You can hate me. You can scream at me. You can throw every piece of furniture in our house through the front window. But you are not walking away from me, and you are not keeping my child away from me. Do you understand?”
