Something was wrong. All my previous appointments were in the prenatal clinic.
“Can you please tell me what’s wrong?”
“Just routine follow-up,” she said, but her tone was too breezy. “Your samples showed minor irregularities. “Dr. Vale wants to be thorough.”
Irregularities.
The word slithered into my ear, cold as a doctor's stethoscope. I shivered and pressed my palm against my belly—had he kicked less today?
“What time?”
“11 AM. Does that work for you?”
“I’ll be there. Thanks for calling,” I said, hanging up to text my manager.
???
I sat in the waiting room trying to focus on my book, but the words blurred each time a nurse passed by. I barely slept last night, worrying about the appointment, looking up every condition and trying to figure out which one it could be. The only comfort was feeling my son inside of me move, reassuring me that he was alive and well.
“Charlotte Hutton,” a man’s voice called, and I almost jumped up to raise my hand and shouted, “present.”
My jaw dropped when I glanced at the doctor.
Why would anyone hire this man to work in a maternity ward? What cruel genius decided to dangle this level of eye candy in front of armies of hormone-saturated women? It was like handing a starving person a gourmet menu, then locking the kitchen.
He was obscenely perfect—tall, dark, and who-approved-this-hazard. Hair combed with ruler-straight precision. A beard trimmed to “I could ruin your life, but I’ll let you live…for now.” A nose so sharp it could’ve sliced through my prenatal anxiety.
Okay, fine, his upper lip was a tad thin—but the man could tie a Windsor knot so flawlessly it made me question all my life choices. His beige shirt clung to muscles I’d need a medical textbook to properly appreciate. My gaze dipped lower—
“Charlotte Hutton,” he repeated with a frown marring his pretty face.
His voice snapped me back to reality, and I held onto the armrest to push myself up.
“Present,” I croaked, raising my hand before wincing at doing what I wasn't supposed to do.
“Lucky bitch,” the woman next to me hissed as I stood up.
“Shut it, you're married,” I muttered, nodding at her glinting wedding ring.
“A woman can look,” she said with a smirk. “Have fun.”
My smile died away when I remembered why I was here.
Chapter 2
Elliot
The next patient’s file was on my desk. I checked it against her general practitioner’s summary of care record to ensure I didn't miss anything. She was a healthy thirty-two-year-old with no underlying conditions. But the thickness of the folder betrayed its unusual nature. My thumb split the pages, skimming past routine vitals until I read the words NHS private donor service.
Interesting.
She didn’t have any fertility issues. She simply wanted to have a child on her own. Most women her age sourced donors through friends or university clinics. The NHS’s private service was reserved for…particular specimens—expensive ones, the kind with PhDs or distinct physical traits.
Ms Charlotte Hutton wanted to be a mother despite societal norms.
The lab results came next. Elevated proteins. Spiking blood pressure. The numbers screamed pre-eclampsia, but my gut whispered something else. Years of treating patients, yet this one stood out. Or perhaps it was the appeal of her desperation to become a mother.
His photo was on my desk and I stroked his cherub cheek through the glass. Four years had passed, but the wound never healed. I smoothed my tie, the one Julia had always hated and allowed myself one final look at Elias. However, this pregnancy had come to be, whatever irregularities the tests showed, I would move heaven and earth to ensure Charlotte Hutton's child entered this world screaming and perfect.
