The examination room was warm, dominated by the large ultrasound monitor suspended from an articulated arm on the wall. The examination bed was draped in crisp white paper.
“Dr. Patel will be in shortly,” the nurse smiled, handing me a paper drape. “You can make yourself comfortable on the table.”
Five minutes later, Dr. Anita Patel walked in. She was a woman in her late forties with kind, perceptive eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She had been my OB-GYN since the day my first pregnancy test turned positive.
She glanced at the door, then at Nicole and Rachel, a slight frown crossing her face.
“Rebecca,” Dr. Patel greeted warmly, shaking Nicole’s hand and nodding to Rachel. “Good to see you. Alexander running late with traffic?”
The question hung in the air, innocent but painful.
“Alexander won’t be attending our appointments moving forward, Dr. Patel,” I said, keeping my voice perfectly calm. “Nicole is my designated birth partner now.”
Dr. Patel’s eyes widened slightly behind her lenses, but her professional composure was seamless. She didn’t ask prying questions. She simply closed the door firmly, sat on her rolling stool, and pulled on a pair of sterile latex gloves.
“Understood,” Dr. Patel said softly. “Let’s see how our little girl is doing, shall we?”
The cold blue gel on my stomach sent a sharp shiver through my skin. Dr. Patel pressed the transducer down, angling it toward my pelvis.
On the high-definition monitor, the grainy gray static shifted, blurred, and then suddenly snapped into sharp, breathtaking focus.
There she was.
Her tiny spine was a perfect curved strand of glowing pearls. Her miniature hands, complete with translucent little fingers, were curled tightly near her face. We could see the delicate outline of her profile—her tiny button nose, her rounded chin, the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest.
Then, Dr. Patel toggled a switch on the console.
*Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.*
The sound of my daughter’s heartbeat filled the small room, loud, rapid, and ferociously strong. It was the most powerful sound in the universe—a galloping rhythm that didn’t care about corporate debt covenants, didn’t care about harbor zoning boards, and didn’t care about billionaire egos.
Tears welled in my eyes, spilling over my lashes and running hot down my cheeks.
Nicole gripped my hand tightly. When I looked over, Nicole was crying too, her lips pressed into a tight, trembling line.
“Heart rate is one hundred and forty-two beats per minute,” Dr. Patel announced, her voice filled with quiet wonder that doctors never truly lose. “Amniotic fluid levels look optimal. Estimated fetal weight is three pounds, four ounces. She is growing right on the fiftieth percentile, Rebecca. She is thriving.”
“Look at her,” Nicole whispered, pointing at the screen. “Becca, she has your chin.”
“She does,” I choked out, a laugh breaking through my tears.
Dr. Patel clicked through several measurement screens, checking the blood flow through the umbilical cord and the placement of the placenta. After a few minutes, her expression became slightly more serious.
“Rebecca, how have your stress levels been over the last seventy-two hours?” she asked, turning the screen slightly away to examine the numeric readings.
“Complicated,” I admitted.
“Your blood pressure was slightly elevated at check-in—one thirty-five over eighty-eight,” Dr. Patel said, turning back to me. “Nothing critical yet, but given that you are entering your thirty-first week, I need you to be exceptionally vigilant. No heavy lifting, no intense emotional confrontations, and absolute rest whenever your body asks for it. Preeclampsia can develop very quickly if maternal stress goes unchecked.”
“I understand,” I nodded.
“I mean it, Rebecca,” Dr. Patel pressed gently, resting her hand over mine. “Whatever storms are blowing through your personal life, close the shutters. Your only job right now is keeping this little girl safe until week thirty-seven.”
“I will,” I promised. “I promise.”
Twenty minutes later, we walked out into the hospital’s main lobby. I held a glossy strip of four black-and-white sonogram photos clutched tightly in my hand.
As we approached the revolving glass doors leading out to Superior Street, a man in a charcoal suit stepped out from behind a marble pillar, blocking our path.
It wasn’t Alex.
It was Marcus Kane, Alex’s chief of private security. A former military contractor with a square jaw, cold gray eyes, and a concealed firearm barely hidden beneath his tailored jacket.
Behind Marcus stood two uniformed private guards.
Nicole immediately stepped in front of me, her voice ringing out across the marble lobby, catching the attention of several passing nurses and security guards.
“Back off, Marcus,” Nicole snapped. “Take one more step toward us and I scream for hospital security.”
