chapter 181
Elena's POV:
The day of our discharge brought an army of media to the hospital's main entrance.
News of one new pure-blooded heir to the Vane family had spread like wildfire through St. Valen's elite circles. Reporters camped outside, desperate for a glimpse, only to be swiftly dispersed by our black-suited security detail.
The more persistent journalists managed only to capture the exhaust fumes of our departing motorcade, but even that seemed to satisfy them.
While the story might lack entertainment value for gossip columns, the financial world paid close attention. Within hours of the news spreading through various media channels, Blackstone Financial Group's stock soared.
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The convoy of black Bentleys swept through the gates of Swan Lake, the most exclusive postpartum care center in the hemisphere.
At fifty thousand dollars minimum per month, it was a sanctuary where only the ultra-wealthy came to recover from childbirth.
Our arrival caused the expected stir—socialites lounging in the marble atrium paused their champagne brunches to whisper behind manicured hands.
Four Swiss-trained infant specialists stood waiting at the private entrance, their crisp uniforms a stark white against the mahogany panels. Behind them, our security detail had already swept the wing reserved for the Vane family.
Sebastian waited until the crowd dispersed, his patience wearing thin with each curious glance thrown our way. When the lobby finally emptied, he rounded the car to my side.
"Arms around my neck," he commanded softly, already sliding one arm beneath my knees.
"I can walk—"
"Elena." Just my name, but the warning was clear. His other arm secured my back as he lifted me effortlessly from the seat, cradling me against his chest like precious cargo.
The private elevator whisked us up in silence, away from prying eyes.
The recovery team was already assembled in our suite—a physiotherapist from Vienna, a nutritionist from Zurich, and the lead obstetrician.
They spread charts across the marble coffee table, discussing muscle rehabilitation and hormone rebalancing with the same intensity Sebastian brought to billion-dollar deals.
"Six weeks minimum before resuming normal activities," Dr. Kellner stated firmly. "The abdominal separation needs careful monitoring."
I nodded, too exhausted to argue.
Sebastian's hand found mine, squeezing gently as they outlined the daily schedule—morning stretches, afternoon walks, evening massage therapy.
Later, while the medical team departed, Sebastian busied himself with unpacking.
I watched from the bed as he carefully arranged my favorite dresses in the walk-in closet. He knew exactly which pieces would make me happy again, feel beautiful despite the exhaustion and the body that no longer felt like mine.
That's when I truly looked around the suite. The cream wallpaper with gold accents, the exact shade as our bedroom at Blackwood Manor.
The Venetian mirror positioned at the same angle where I did my morning makeup. Even the cashmere throw draped over the settee—identical to the one I always curled up with while sketching.
"When did you..." I trailed off, overwhelmed by the attention to detail.
"The moment they admitted you to the hospital." He closed the closet door and returned to sit on the bed's edge. "I had the team working around the clock. I wanted you to feel at home when you woke up."
My heart swelled with an emotion too large for words.
"Come here," I whispered, tugging weakly at his shirt.
He leaned down carefully, mindful of my tender abdomen. I pressed a soft kiss to his lips, tasting coffee and mint, feeling the tension melt from his shoulders at the simple gesture.
"Thank you," I murmured against his mouth. "For thinking of everything."
"Just focus on getting better," he said, thumb stroking my cheek. "Leave the rest to me. I've already notified the Hartwells—they'll want to come see you soon."
But my family's visit would have to wait.
Business complications in New York and an ugly succession dispute over my grandfather's shipping empire kept them away until our son was nearly a month old. By then, I'd recovered enough to return to Blackwood Manor for the christening.
The private chapel hadn't seen such activity in years.
Morning light streamed through stained glass windows as staff polished every surface to mirror brightness. Our son, resplendent in the delicate suit gown I'd hand-sewn during my confinement, slept peacefully in his nurse's arms.
The christening gifts had been arranged on the altar like museum pieces—an antique silver talisman from the Hartwells, supposedly blessed by a pope three centuries ago; a string of pink pearls from the Morrisons that once graced a Russian princess's neck; a diamond brooch from Sebastian's board members that could fund a small country's economy.
Each piece destined for a vault, too valuable for a child to ever actually wear.
My grandfather held our son with practiced ease, his weathered hands steady despite his seventy years. "He has his father's bearing already," he murmured, studying the baby's serious expression. "That aristocratic brow—pure Vane."
Victoria lingered by the chapel door, her hands twisted in the folds of her black dress. I'd heard the whispers that followed her since her husband's death—absurd superstitions about widows bringing misfortune to infants. She looked desperately at the babies but didn't dare step closer.
"Victoria, dear," Lady Margaret's voice cut through the awkward silence. "Come hold your nephew."
"I shouldn't—the rumors—"
"Nonsense." Margaret's tone brooked no argument. "The Vane family doesn't entertain such medieval foolishness. Besides, the children need their aunt."
Victoria approached hesitantly, and Margaret personally placed my son in her arms. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the baby opened his eyes, gazed up at her aunt, and produced a toothless smile that could have melted glaciers.
"Oh," Victoria breathed, her entire face transforming.
The shadows that had haunted her features seemed to lift as she traced a finger down the baby's velvet cheek. "Oh, he's perfect."