Chapter 146 Chapter 146
The next morning Zaiel prepared to leave early again, meetings pulling him back fully into Rhyland Global operations, yet this time he looked less conflicted standing near the door while Alina discussed breakfast plans behind us.
"You'll call if anything feels off," he said.
"I always do."
"And rest," he said with that look on his face.
"I rest," I said.
"And," he asked. I laughed, pulling him down into a kiss before the list continued.
"Go to work," I said. Reluctance lingered, but trust finally outweighed fear, and he left after one last glance back, security falling seamlessly into place as Anthony took over morning watch like an unspoken shift change.
Weeks passed gently after that, appointments turned routine, the baby grew stronger, and my energy returned slowly. Even evenings changed because instead of quiet recovery, Zaiel now joined family dinners fully present, discussing work while keeping one hand on me at all times, like reassurance flowed both ways.
One night while everyone gathered outside under soft lights, Anthony raised a glass casually. "To stability," he said. Simple words yet meaningful considering everything behind us, glasses lifted around the table. Zaiel looked at me then, something peaceful settling in his expression I had waited months to see.
Hope, and sitting there surrounded by people who chose us every day, feeling our child move steadily beneath my hand while laughter filled the air, I understood something deeply comforting. We weren't holding our breath anymore; we were finally preparing for the future instead of fearing it.
Zaiel
Month five should have been easier; that was what every doctor said, what every article claimed, and what logic suggested. After the constant fear of the first months finally loosened its grip, Tessa was healthier, stronger, sleeping better, and eating properly, and for the first time since she became pregnant, I allowed myself to breathe without expecting disaster waiting around the corner.
Then she started crying. At first I thought something was wrong physically because she woke beside me already in tears, silent ones sliding down her temples while she stared at nothing, and the sight snapped every protective instinct awake before I was fully conscious. I sat up immediately.
"What hurts?"
She shook her head while trying to wipe her face. "Nothing," she said, and that answer meant absolutely nothing to me. I checked her temperature with my hand automatically, scanned her breathing, and watched for tension or discomfort while panic climbed steadily in my chest.
"Tessa, tell me."
"I don't know why I'm crying," she whispered miserably.
Confusion replaced fear for exactly two seconds before concern doubled because unexplained distress ranked worse than visible injury. Within minutes, half the house knew something was happening because emotional shifts in Tessa traveled faster than security alerts now, Mom appearing quietly while Michelle hovered nearby holding water, like preparation alone might solve whatever crisis unfolded.
Tessa laughed weakly through tears, which immediately turned into harder crying, and I realized we were entering unfamiliar territory; nothing triggered it, and nothing fixed it. Breakfast became the next incident.
Damon finished the last piece of toast sitting near her plate, and she burst into tears so suddenly the entire table froze like someone fired a weapon indoors.
"I didn't know you wanted it," Damon said carefully.
"I didn't," she cried harder; nobody moved, nobody spoke a word.
I stared at the situation, trying to calculate cause and solution, but logic failed completely because she wasn't upset about food; she was upset that it existed and then didn't. Her hormones.
The doctor later confirmed it calmly over the phone while I paced my office, convinced something medically significant caused emotional instability.
"Perfectly normal at this stage," the doctor said.
"Normal" felt like an unacceptable explanation. By afternoon Shea suggested a movie, hoping distraction helped, which worked until the ending credits rolled and she began crying again like genuine loss settled over her.
"It ended," she sobbed into a blanket.
I sat beside her completely serious despite hearing Damon choke back laughter somewhere behind me. "It was supposed to end," Shea said cautiously.
"They're gone forever," she said. I pressed my fingers briefly against my temple, realizing no training, negotiation, or crisis management prepared me for emotional devastation caused by fictional characters, yet I still pulled her closer, letting her cry against my shoulder because distress remained distress regardless of reason.
Two days later flowers wilted in the living room, and that alone caused another breakdown. "They were alive yesterday," she whispered tearfully.
Arthur silently removed every flower from sight without comment. While staff replaced them within the hour, Arthur looked like he wanted to laugh at his daughter but didn't; when he couldn't, he just walked away.
Adaptation happened quickly in this family; we adjusted operations. Snacks appeared constantly, so nothing finished unexpectedly; movies paused before endings, fresh flowers rotated daily, lighting softened, and noise reduced. Security even participated without instruction.
Jax replaced empty glasses before she noticed, Joe adjusted temperature settings after Michelle suggested comfort mattered, and Carlo began arriving with backup desserts; nobody questioned it. Her stability became a collective priority.
Still watching her struggle unsettled me more than physical danger ever had because pain I could fight, threats I could eliminate, and enemies I understood. This left me powerless; that night she cried because I looked tired.
"You need sleep," she said through tears.
"I sleep."
"You don't," she said. She cried harder while accusing exhaustion of harming me personally, and I pulled her carefully into my arms, unsure whether reassurance helped or worsened things. Downstairs later I heard Joe whisper to Damon.
"Boss looks terrified," Joe said quietly.
"He is," Damon replied quietly, and they weren't wrong. The pastry incident nearly broke the remaining composure. Carlo brought breakfast boxes attempting morale improvement, and Tessa finished hers peacefully until she noticed the empty plate and silence spread instantly. Her expression changed, and I recognized the incoming disaster too late.
"It was so good," she cried.
Carlo looked devastated. "I... I’ll get more," he said immediately, already moving toward the door. I crouched beside her, keeping my voice steady.
"You want another?"
"It won't be the same," she whispered tragically.
I closed my eyes briefly, fighting inappropriate laughter because amusement mixed dangerously with concern; she looked genuinely heartbroken.
"We will find identical pastries," I assured seriously.
The room stayed silent until she finally laughed through tears, and relief hit me harder than expected. Every emotional swing exhausted her afterward, leaving her curled beside me while the house moved quietly around us, maintaining calm without discussion. That evening she watched everyone carefully.
"You all look tired," she murmured.
"We’ve handled worse," I replied honestly.
"I cried over bread today," she said with shame.
"You were emotionally invested," Shea said.
She stared at me before laughing again, and tension across the room visibly eased because laughter meant recovery. Her hand moved over her stomach absentmindedly, and the baby shifted beneath my palm moments later, grounding both of us instantly. Fear faded when I felt that movement, proof that life was continuing.