The waiting room feels too quiet, like everyone here is holding their breath at once. Soft grey walls, plush chairs, gentle lighting… as if they’re trying to cushion the blow before it comes.
And then there’s Ax.
A dark, unapologetic bulk beside me, far too big for the little chair, far too intense for the muted tones of the room. I see the glances being cast his way – staff, patients, even a toddler staring open-mouthed – and I can’t blame them.
He’s imposing.
A wall of black leather and quiet control.
All of it sharpened by the mask he’s absolutely not supposed to be wearing for my sake, yet he’s doing it anyway, because of me. Taking control where I can’t. Being the rock because today… I’m not.
Beneath my polished Chanel trouser suit, my stomach is a mess of slow somersaults and my knee won’t stop jittering.
I glance up at him, dark hair smoothed back, jaw set, mouth tight. But his eyes… they give him away. Concern. Determination. That tenderness he pretends not to have, but gives me without question.
And I hate how much I need it right now.
Hate how unfamiliar this weakness feels against the armour I’ve worn most of my life. I called him out for wearing a mask… but I’m just as bad. Like him, it got me through my childhood. Got me where I am today.
I’ve built an empire by being prepared, capable, in control. Yet nothing about this feels controllable. And no matter how many times I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, that biology doesn’t listen to teenage declarations or corporate ambition, that Ax was right and I can’t talk my body out of fertility… the fear reigns on regardless.
‘Taylor Stone?’
I blink up at the nurse stepping into the room and nod.
She smiles. ‘This way, please.’
I stand, running my clammy palms down my thighs, and take a breath as Axel rises beside me.
‘Okay?’ he murmurs, his steady hand settling against the small of my back.
And I nod again, too caught up in my thoughts to answer.
We follow the nurse down a corridor and into a consultation room. It’s brighter in here; pops of yellow lift the grey backdrop, a cheese plant flourishes in one corner, and the air smells faintly of lemons, cutting through the sterile edge.
The specialist comes out from behind her desk as we enter. She looks exactly like her photograph: late forties, smooth blonde bob, steady blue eyes.
‘Taylor, Axel,’ she greets us, her smile reassuringly warm. ‘I’m Ms Ellingham. It’s lovely to meet you.’
We shake hands and she gestures to the chairs waiting for us.
‘Please, take a seat.’
Axel waits for me to sit first, then lowers himself beside me, his leather creaking softly in my ear as Ms Ellingham returns to her desk. I let my gaze drift over the room, cataloguing the little details: landscape paintings, official certificates, stacked brochures and leaflets, a sculpture shaped like a tree… or maybe it’s hands reaching for each other.
‘So…’ she begins.
I pull my focus back to her, sitting straighter, hands clasped in my lap. I don’t know why I’m nervous. Not really. It’s not like she can look at me and declare me infertile on the spot.
Can she?
‘I understand you’ve been trying to conceive for about six months?’
‘Yes.’ My voice comes out too thin and I clear my throat, lean a little closer. ‘I know it’s not long, but at my age and with… well, we?—’
My knee starts bobbing again and Ax is there in a heartbeat, his hand gentle on my thigh, steadying it, steadying me.
‘We thought it best to be proactive,’ he finishes smoothly, his eyes lingering on me, the small curve to his lips whispering all the encouragement I need.
