Chapter 142 142

Chapter 142 142
I nod. “Yeah. You’re right.” But I barely manage two bites before my fork clatters to my plate. “What if something’s wrong, though? What if⁠—?”

“Then we’ll handle it.” His voice carries the same steady conviction that made me fall for him in the first place. “Together.”

Grams reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “That’s right, dear. And you’ve got all of us right here with you.”

The lump in my throat makes it impossible to respond, but as I look around at my family, I realize they’re right.

Whatever happens today, I’m not alone anymore.

“Anyway!” Hope claps to signal a change of subject. “Let’s talk about what’s really on everyone’s mind: wallpaper. The nursery absolutely needs a woodland theme. You know, since you two met because of a certain four-legged menace.”

Right on cue, Rufus lifts his head from where he’s sprawled at my feet and gives a low woof.

“Speaking of menaces,” Grams says, her eyes twinkling, “did I ever tell you about the time Nova was born? She came three weeks early, right in the middle of a blizzard. Your father had to⁠—”

I tense at the mention of my dad, but Sam’s fingers tighten on my knee, grounding me. The familiar weight of his hand anchors me to this moment, to this room full of people who actually love me.

“More tea, dear?” Mr. Morris swoops in with the pot before I can answer. “And a scone. You’d best finish that, or Mrs. Morris will have your head. The wee bairn needs its strength for its photo shoot today.”

I open my mouth to protest, but before I can, I catch Sam watching me from the corner of my eye. The ice in his gray eyes has melted into something molten, something that makes my breath catch.

It’s the same look he gave me that first day with Rufus, when the Great Dane knocked us both into Lake Michigan. Like he sees past all my carefully constructed walls straight to the scared girl inside who just wants someone to stay.

“One more cup,” I concede, letting Mr. Morris fill my mug. “But only because you’re all being so nice about my impending mental breakdown.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort, lass,” he scolds me playfully. “You’ve got too many of us here to keep you upright.”

For a local spot in this quiet Scottish town, the clinic is surprisingly fancy.

The waiting room looks like it was plucked straight from a London magazine spread, all gleaming teak and soft, recessed lighting. But what catches my attention isn’t the décor—it’s how the receptionist’s face lights up when she sees Sam.

“Mr. Litvinov! And this must be Mrs. Nova.” She beams at me like we’re old friends. “We’re so delighted to have you here with us today. Dr. MacPherson’s been reviewing your file personally.”

Of course he has. My mountain of a man may act like this is just another Tuesday morning, but I know better. The way his hand stays pressed against my lower back, the slight tension in his jaw—he’s been planning this appointment down to the smallest detail.

Grams squeezes my fingers as we settle into the plush chairs. “Remember when we used to play doctor with your dolls?” she whispers. “You always insisted on being both the doctor and the worried mama.”

I let out a teary laugh. How many times did I drag my toy medical kit to her apartment, seeking refuge from the chaos at home? She never turned me away, not once.

“I still have that little stethoscope,” she continues. “Been saving it, just in case.”

My eyes burn. Stupid pregnancy hormones. “Grams…”

“None of that now, sweetness.” She pats my cheek. “Save the waterworks for when you see your little one.”

Before I can respond, a nurse appears. “Ms. Pierce? We’re ready for you.”

Sam helps me up, and as we follow the nurse down the hallway, I catch his reflection in a glass panel. His face is carved from stone, but his eyes—his eyes tell a different story.

He’s just as nervous as I am.

The exam room is warm and dim, like a cocoon. I lie back on the padded table, my hand finding Sam’s as the technician bustles around with practiced efficiency. Her Scottish lilt reminds me of Mrs. Morris as she explains each step, each piece of equipment.

“This might be a wee bit cold,” she warns, squirting gel onto my stomach.

I flinch at the temperature, and Sam’s fingers tighten around mine. His thumb traces circles on my palm—the same soothing pattern he uses when I wake from nightmares.

The technician’s wand glides over my belly as she chatters with Grams about the weather, but I barely register their voices over the whoosh-whoosh sound filling the room. Is that⁠—?

“Ah, there we are.” The technician taps a few keys, freezing the image. “Look at that strong heartbeat.”

“Just like her grandmother.” Grams leans forward, squinting at the screen. “I had two miscarriages before Nova’s father, you know. The doctor said my heart wasn’t strong enough to carry, but I showed him.”

The technician laughs appreciatively. “We do love to see fighting genes in our mamas-to-be. And it’s so nice to have this many generations here for support! Will other grandparents be joining for future visits?”

The technician’s innocent question slices through our bubble of calm.

Sam goes completely still beside me. The temperature plummets.

My heart aches at the thought of the empty spaces in this room. Two ghosts hover at the edges of our happiness—a junkie who sold her son for a fix, and a man who recorded the transaction just to torture that same little boy for decades.

The worst part? I can picture exactly how this scene should’ve played out. In a different world, a better world, Leonid would’ve worn that pinched expression he gets whenever something threatens his control. He’d lean against the wall, pretending indifference, but there’d be a heart beating beneath that mask that would love his grandson like no other.

And Samuil’s mother? In that parallel universe where she chose her son over her addiction, she’d be here clutching Sam’s other hand, weeping with joy over her first grandchild.

Instead, we have these shadows. These what-ifs. These could-have-beens. These severed, bleeding stumps of the family tree.

“We’re keeping things intimate for now,” I cut in quickly, forcing brightness into my voice. “Just immediate family.”

The technician’s professional smile never wavers as she positions the wand. “Right then. Well, let’s see what we can see, shall we?”

I hold my breath, grateful when she launches into technical explanations about measurements and markers and this and that. It’s all gibberish to me right now. Sam’s grip on my hand remains vise-like, but I feel the exact moment some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

This is our family now—the one we’re building together. The one we chose. The one that includes my grandmother’s gentle wisdom and Hope’s infectious laughter, but not the grim shadows of our pasts.

The technician adjusts something on her screen, and suddenly, a new rapid swooshing fills the room. “Ah-ha! There we are,” she says softly. “That’s your baby’s heartbeat.”