Chapter 152 Chapter 152
Dad and Aurthur spent mornings tending the garden before coming inside carrying fresh fruit like offerings they insisted helped strength. Michelle rotated cooking schedules, Shea handled laundry, and Daliah monitored appointments like medical staff.
They kept her entertained daily, bringing noise, laughter, and reassurance that surrounded her constantly. No one said it aloud, but everyone understood: we were close, very close.
My trips to Rhyland Global were part-time now because work demanded attention, yet every hour away felt wrong, and I checked cameras more often than reports. Carlo updated me constantly, Joe monitored internal systems, and Jax stayed positioned nearby whenever I wasn't home. Protection never relaxed, not even now, especially now.
When I walked through the door each evening, the first thing I heard was her voice somewhere upstairs, followed by someone reminding her to stay seated.
That alone eased the tension I carried all day.
One evening I entered our room quietly, finding her struggling to adjust herself on the bed, frustration clear across her face. "I can't even roll over properly," she complained breathlessly. I crossed the room immediately, helping her shift, carefully supporting her back while she exhaled in relief.
"This part ends soon," I told her.
She studied me carefully. "You’re more nervous than I am," she said softly.
I didn't deny it because pretending to be calm felt pointless. "I’ve seen you hurt before," I admitted while brushing hair from her face.
"And I'm okay now," she reminded gently.
Still my hand remained against her stomach, feeling movement beneath my palm, reassurance I needed more than sleep. Our daughter moved constantly these days, strong kicks visible through fabric reminding me how close we were to meeting her.
Every movement felt miraculous, every moment terrifying. That night during dinner the entire family gathered again, filling the dining room with conversation, while Tessa remained seated comfortably, surrounded by cushions like the center of gravity itself. Arthur told stories, Dad debated business casually, and Mom corrected everyone when they tried giving outdated parenting advice.
Tessa laughed softly, exhaustion mixing with happiness while everyone fussed over her plate, making sure she ate enough. I watched quietly, realizing something unexpected. She wasn't alone in this; neither of us was.
Later upstairs I helped her into bed, carefully adjusting pillows exactly how she preferred before sitting beside her longer than usual. "You haven’t slept properly," she said, noticing immediately.
"I sleep," I answered.
She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, and I exhaled quietly, finally admitting the truth.
"I keep thinking something might go wrong." Her hand reached for mine, squeezing gently. "We made it this far," she whispered, and she was right—nine months. After fear, loss of blood, and uncertainty, we reached the final stretch. I leaned forward, pressing my forehead lightly against hers, grounding myself in warmth and steady breathing. Soon our daughter would be here, and everything would change again, and for once change didn't feel dangerous; it felt inevitable and necessary.
Month Nine
Tessa
Being nine months pregnant felt less magical and more like existing inside someone else's body entirely because nothing moved the way it used to, and even turning in bed required planning, patience, and assistance. My feet looked unfamiliar, swollen enough that Alina banned me from standing longer than necessary, and every attempt at independence resulted in three people appearing instantly to help.
"I can walk," I protested one morning.
"You can waddle dangerously," Michelle corrected.
Everyone treated me like fragile glass, which honestly would have annoyed me months ago, but now exhaustion outweighed pride. Everything felt heavy, sleeping was uncomfortable, breathing took effort, and even laughing sometimes made my stomach tighten painfully, yet beneath all of it lived excitement impossible to ignore.
She moved constantly now, stretching and pressing tiny feet against my ribs, reminding me she was ready even if I wasn't entirely sure I was. The house stayed alive around me, with voices downstairs, cooking smells drifting upward, and Dad checking on me. He knocked lightly before entering each time, carrying juice or fruit like routine comfort.
"How's my girl today?" he asked, settling into the chair beside the bed.
"Tired," I admitted honestly.
He smiled warmly. "Means you're close."
Afternoons became slow, peaceful stretches where family rotated keeping me company while Zaiel worked, Alina read beside me, Shea organized baby clothes again despite already doing it twice, and Daliah timed snacks. Someone always stayed nearby, and I never felt alone.
When Zaiel came home, evenings shifted immediately because the entire second floor somehow cleared within minutes, giving us privacy without discussion. He walked straight to me every time, his expression softening instantly.
"How are you feeling?"
"Sore," I answered usually.
He helped me stand, carefully guiding short walks recommended by the doctor before settling me back into bed, adjusting pillows with practiced precision.
Watching him care for me still amazed me because this was the same man capable of terrifying ruthlessness, yet here he worried about blanket placement and water temperature.
One night while resting against him, I felt a strong, sharp pressure low in my stomach enough to make me freeze. "You okay?" he asked instantly.
"I think she's just stretching," I murmured after a moment.
His hand stayed protectively over my stomach long after movement faded. Fear flickered briefly but passed because every appointment confirmed she was strong, healthy, and ready. The nursery waited downstairs, finished weeks ago, sunlight filling the room whenever doors opened.
Sometimes family walked me there slowly, letting me sit inside while imagining bringing her home, tiny clothes filled the drawers, soft blankets were folded neatly, and hope lived in every corner. Late that evening everyone gathered again, laughter echoing through the house while I rested comfortably surrounded by people who loved this child already.
I looked around, realizing something deeply grounding: this baby wasn't entering uncertainty; she was entering a family. When Zaiel carried me upstairs later, exhaustion finally winning, I rested against his shoulder, feeling safe despite the discomfort pressing through my body.
"We made it," I whispered sleepily.
His arms tightened carefully around me. "Almost," he corrected softly.
And lying there feeling our daughter move steadily beneath my hands, I understood the waiting was nearly over. Nine months of fear, healing, love, and patience had brought us here; we were in the final stretch. Soon she would be in our arms, and everything would begin again.
I swear time slowed down just to test my patience; every morning felt like I woke up inside the same stretched moment that refused to move forward. The sunlight came through the curtains the same way, the pillows felt heavier, my body felt like it belonged to someone else entirely, and even breathing sometimes annoyed me because it reminded me how aware I was of every inch of myself now, every swollen part, every ache, and every tiny kick that told me she was still perfectly comfortable while I felt like a walking planet ready to collapse at any second.
Nine months sounded short when people said it out loud, but living inside the last stretch felt endless, like waiting for something huge while being unable to do anything except exist and count hours.