Her voice softens. “Because you just gave birth?”
“Yes. Because I just gave birth. Because I’m exhausted. Because I don’t know who I am in this equation yet. Because it’ll ruin his life, Jason’s life, and therefore, my sister’s life. The truth is a bomb.”
“He’s their father, and you’re their mother. You know where you fit in this.”
The word hits differently when she says it. Mother.
Holy shit.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper.
“You’re doing fine.”
“That’s not comforting.”
She smiles faintly. “You’ve had nine months to think about this.”
I shoot her a look. “Pregnancy brain is not strategic planning time.”
“You literally engineered a revenge baby. Two of them.”
“I did not engineer?—”
She lifts a brow.
I exhale sharply. “Fine. I engineered a situation. But I did not anticipate this.” I glance down at the twins again. At their tiny hands. Their matching frowns. “And I definitely didn’t anticipate him being my doctor.”
“That part,” Olivia says firmly, “is cosmic.”
“No,” I say quietly. “That part feels like punishment. But I guess it shouldn’t be that unexpected. Snow Valley is small enough that something stupid like this was bound to happen.”
She reaches for my hand. “Or maybe it’s an opportunity.”
I shake my head. “No. This stays between us. No one else knows what happened that night. No one else needs to.”
Olivia looks like she wants to argue more, but before she can, there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I call out.
The door opens, and there he is. Dr. Baylock. Damian. Silver at his temples, blue eyes steady. He’s still in scrubs, sleeves rolled, hair slightly disheveled, like the night hasn’t let him rest either.
He glances first at the bassinets, then at me, then at Olivia, assessing in that quiet, competent way he has. “How are we doing?”
I swallow. “Alive.”
“That’s a good start.” He steps closer to the bassinets, peering down at the twins with something that looks dangerously like awe. I watch his face as he takes them in—really looks at them.
Does he see it? No. There’s nothing to see yet. They’re squishy and red and indistinguishable from a hundred other newborns he’s probably delivered.
“They’re strong. Both of them.” He turns his attention back to me. “Pain manageable?”
“Yeah. It’s…a little less now.”
He nods, satisfied. “Have you decided on names yet?”
The question hits like a wave.
Olivia looks at me. I look at the twins. We had ideas. A running list. But nothing felt right. “Not yet,” I admit.
