She led me down a hallway to a small procedure room. Truth was already on the exam table, wearing a hospital gown with a thin sheet draped over her legs. Dr. Beaumont was setting up equipment on a tray, her movements efficient and practiced.
Truth’s eyes found mine the moment I walked in. Relief flooded her face.
“Hey,” I said quietly.
“Hey.”
I moved to the side of the exam table and took her hand without thinking. Her fingers wrapped around mine immediately, holding tight.
“We’re just about ready to begin,” Dr. Beaumont said, glancing at us. “Truth, you’re going to feel some pressure, but it shouldn’t be painful. Just try to relax and breathe.”
Truth nodded, her grip on my hand tightening.
I leaned down slightly, my other hand moving to her hair, stroking gently. “You’re okay,” I murmured. “I’m right here.”
Dr. Beaumont began the procedure, her voice calm and steady as she explained each step. Truth’s breathing quickened, her body tensing beneath the sheet. I kept my hand in her hair, my thumb tracing small circles against her scalp.
“Breathe,” I said softly. “Just breathe, Truth. You’re doing great.”
Her eyes stayed locked on mine, and I saw the trust there—the way she was letting me anchor her through this. It hit me harder than I expected. This wasn’t just a medical procedure anymore. This was us. Together. Creating something that would bind us in ways the contract never could.
“Almost done,” Dr. Beaumont said. “Just a few more seconds.”
Truth’s hand squeezed mine so hard it hurt. I didn’t pull away. Just kept stroking her hair, kept murmuring reassurances, kept being present in a way I’d never been present for anyone.
“There,” Dr. Beaumont said finally, stepping back. “All done. The embryo is in place.”
Truth exhaled shakily, her body sagging with relief.
“Now we wait,” Dr. Beaumont continued, pulling off her gloves. “Fifteen minutes with your hips elevated, then you’re free to go. Remember—no strenuous activity for the next forty-eight hours. Rest, hydrate, and try not to stress.”
She smiled at both of us, then left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Truth looked up at me, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Thank you for being here.”
“I told you,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended. “I’m not going anywhere.”
We stayed like that for the full fifteen minutes—my hand in hers, my other hand still stroking her hair, neither of us speaking. The silence was heavy with everything we weren’t saying. Everything we couldn’t say.
When the nurse finally came back to clear her, I helped Truth sit up slowly. She changed back into her sundress while I waited outside, and when she emerged, she looked exhausted but hopeful.
“You hungry?” I asked.
She hesitated. “A little.”
“Let me take you to lunch.”
“Amai, you don’t have to?—”
“I know I don’t have to.” I looked at her. “I want to.”
She studied my face for a long moment, then nodded. “Okay.”
I took her to a small bistro in the Garden District—nothing too fancy, but nice enough that she’d feel comfortable. We were seated at a table near the window, and I watched as Truth relaxed slightly, the tension from the procedure slowly easing from her shoulders.
We ordered—she got a salad and soup, and I got a sandwich I had no intention of eating—and fell into easy conversation about nothing important. The weather. The neighborhood. A story Delphine had told her about one of her friends.
It felt normal. Easy. Like we were just two people having lunch together, not a man and the woman carrying his childunder a contract that was supposed to keep everything clinical and distant.
