Chapter 228: Life Begins Again

Jasmine's POV

The nursery was finally complete. Soft yellow walls, white furniture, and a mobile of stars and moons hanging above the crib. I stood in the doorway, one hand resting on my heavily pregnant belly, trying to imagine Louis's reaction if he could see it.

He would love it, I thought. He would stand behind me, arms wrapped around my swollen middle, chin resting on my shoulder as we both gazed at the room that would soon hold our child.

"It's beautiful, Jas," Emma said, coming to stand beside me. "You've done an amazing job."

I smiled softly. "You helped. Everyone did."

It was true. The past few months had seen a constant stream of visitors to our house—Emma, Daisy, Isabella, even Daniel and Sophia. All bringing gifts for the baby, all helping to prepare for its arrival, all offering support in their own ways.

Richard had been the most unexpected source of comfort. After our return from Switzerland, he'd made a point of visiting me daily, often sitting with me in companionable silence as I sorted through baby clothes or read pregnancy books. He never spoke much about Louis, but his presence was a reminder that I wasn't alone, that the Mitchell family still considered me one of their own.

Marcus, too, had been a pillar of strength. Though the private search teams had found nothing, he'd maintained a network of contacts throughout Europe, following up on even the most implausible leads. I knew he did it more for my sake than out of any real hope, but I appreciated it nonetheless.

"The doctor says it could be any day now," I told Emma as we moved from the nursery to the sitting room. "The baby's dropped and I've been having Braxton Hicks contractions."

Emma's eyes widened with excitement. "Really? Oh my God, I'm going to be an aunt!"

I smiled at her enthusiasm, though my own feelings were more complicated. Joy at the impending arrival of Louis's child, mixed with an aching sadness that he wouldn't be there to share it.

"I still haven't decided on names," I admitted, easing myself onto the sofa. At eight and a half months pregnant, every movement had become a challenge. "If it's a boy, I thought perhaps Louis, but..."

"But?" Emma prompted gently.

I sighed. "It might be too painful. A constant reminder."

Emma took my hand. "You don't have to decide right now. When you meet your baby, you'll know what feels right."

That night, I lay awake in the bed that still felt too empty without Louis. The baby was active, kicks and rolls that made my stomach ripple visibly under my nightgown.

"Your daddy would have loved feeling you move," I whispered, rubbing the spot where a tiny foot or elbow protruded. "He would have talked to you every night, played music for you, planned all the things he wanted to teach you."

Tears slipped silently down my cheeks, as they often did during these one-sided conversations with our child. Six months had passed since Louis's disappearance, and while the acute agony had dulled to a persistent ache, there were still moments when the grief felt as fresh as the day it happened.

The contractions started around three in the morning. At first, I thought they were just more Braxton Hicks, but when they became regular and increasingly painful, I realized this was the real thing.

I called for Anna, the night nurse Daisy had insisted on hiring for my last month of pregnancy. Within minutes, she was at my side, timing contractions and calling the doctor.

"It's time, Mrs. Mitchell," she said, her calm voice a comfort in the face of my growing anxiety. "We should get you to the hospital."

The next hours passed in a blur of pain and anticipation. Daisy arrived at the hospital first, her face a mixture of excitement and concern. Then Richard, looking more nervous than I'd ever seen him. Marcus and Isabella weren't far behind.

"My father's here," I told the nurse as another contraction gripped me. "And my mother-in-law. Can they come in?"

With Marcus and Daisy at my side, the labor seemed more manageable somehow. They each held one of my hands, offering encouragement, wiping my brow, reminding me to breathe.

"Louis should be here," I gasped between contractions. "He should be here for this."

"He is, sweetheart," Daisy said softly. "In every way that matters, he's here with you."

I clung to that thought as the pain intensified. Louis was with me, in my heart, in our child, in the love that still bound us even across the divide of life and death.

After nearly twelve hours of labor, at 2:47 in the afternoon, my daughter was born. The sound of her first cry filled the room, and my heart expanded with a love so intense it took my breath away.

"It's a girl!" the doctor announced, placing the squirming, pink bundle on my chest.

I gazed down at her in wonder—her tiny face, scrunched and red, her perfect little fingers wrapped around my thumb with surprising strength. Though I searched her features desperately for signs of Louis, it was too soon to tell who she would resemble.

"She's beautiful," Marcus said, his voice choked with emotion. "Absolutely perfect."

Daisy was openly weeping, her hand covering her mouth. "Louis would be so proud," she whispered.

I nodded, unable to speak through the lump in my throat. In this moment of profound joy, Louis's absence felt even more acute. He should have been here, should have been the first to hold his daughter, to count her fingers and toes, to see her enter the world.

After the nurses had cleaned and measured her—seven pounds, two ounces, twenty inches long—and I'd been moved to a recovery room, the family gathered around my bed, each taking turns holding the newest member of our families.

"Have you decided on a name?" Emma asked, cradling her niece with a look of pure adoration.

I nodded. Despite my earlier doubts, the moment I'd seen my daughter's face, I'd known exactly what to call her.

"Grace," I said softly. "Grace Russo Mitchell."

Daisy's eyes filled with fresh tears. She said. "Louis would love that."

Richard, who had been standing silently by the window, approached the bed with uncharacteristic hesitation.

"May I?" he asked, holding out his arms for the baby.

I nodded, watching as Emma carefully transferred Grace to her grandfather's embrace. Richard's expression transformed as he gazed down at his granddaughter. The hard lines of his face softened, his eyes grew bright with unshed tears.

"Hello, little one," he murmured. "I'm your grandpa."

The tender moment brought fresh tears to my eyes. Louis should be here for this, I thought again. He should see his father with our daughter.

But as I watched my family gather around Grace, each of them already half in love with her, I felt a sense of peace settle over me for the first time in months. Louis might be gone, but he lived on in our daughter, in the love that surrounded her.