And then the ultrasound wand is moving across my skin, and Dr. Chen is studying the screen with professional focus.
"There we are," she says, smiling. "See that flicker?"
I look at the screen. It's mostly gray static and vague shapes I can't identify.
"That's the heartbeat," Dr. Chen explains, pointing. "Your baby is measuring right on track for eleven weeks. Everything looks good."
And then I hear it.
A rapid whooshing sound. Fast and strong and undeniably real.
My baby's heartbeat.
Our baby's heartbeat.
"Oh my God," I whisper.
Donovan's hand finds mine. His strong fingers lace through mine, squeezing gently, and when I glance up at him, his cloudy gray eyes are fixed on the screen.
He looks stunned. Overwhelmed. Like he's seeing something that's fundamentally changing his understanding of the universe.
"Heart rate is 165," Dr. Chen continues, completely oblivious to the emotional crisis happeningin her exam room. "That's perfect. Due date looks like late January. Any questions?"
I have about a million questions.
Instead, I just shake my head, still staring at the screen where my baby—our baby—is flickering like a tiny, determined heartbeat.
"I'll print some pictures," Dr. Chen says, wiping the gel off my stomach. "Congratulations. Everything looks great."
Ten minutes later, we're standing outside the building in the heavy July air, and I'm holding a strip of ultrasound photos with a smudge of gel still tacky on my skin under my shirt.
"That was..." Donovan trails off.
"Yeah." My voice is barely there. "That was."
"The heartbeat—" His jawflexes. "I can still hear it."
I can too. That fast, insistent whoosh-whoosh-whoosh, still ricocheting around my ribcage with my own pulse.
We stand there on the sidewalk like idiots, not touching, not knowing how to be the people who just heard their child's heartbeat together.
Eight days ago, on the terrace, I told him I was pregnant and he gave me…nothing. No smile. No assurance. No excitement.
Just that careful, shell-shocked blankness… like I’d told him the champagne was running low.
"Emma." He finally turns fully toward me. “We need to talk. Let’s head to my place. Have some privacy.”
My stomach clenches. "I don't know if that's a good idea."
"Please." The word scrapes out—rough. "Just an hour. No ambushes, no speeches. I need to explain some things, and I’d rather not do it on a Manhattan sidewalk next to a juice bar."
I should say no. I should protect whatever's left of my dignity and go home to my tiny apartment and my pad thai leftovers.
"Okay," I hear myself say instead.
Because I’m constitutionally incapable of saying no to this man when his gray eyes look like that.
Fourteen minutes later, I step out of a private elevator into Donovan Titan’s world.
