The private elevator took us straight to the sixth floor—the high-security VIP obstetrics and gynecology wing.

There were no waiting rooms here, no magazines, no crying infants. The hallways were carpeted in deep navy wool, lit by warm recessed sconces that made the facility feel more like a five-star boutique hotel than a medical ward.

Dr. Aris Thorne, a tall, silver-haired woman in a crisp white lab coat, met us at the double doors. She didn't look surprised to see Valon Meta carrying a disheveled woman soaked in rainwater.

"Room 4, Valon," Dr. Thorne said smoothly, stepping aside. "Set her on the examination bed."

Valon carried me into the room, setting me down on the cushioned table with an almost painful gentleness. He stepped back three paces, placing his hands behind his back, standing like a guard at a vault.

"Thank you, Dr. Thorne," I managed to say, sitting up straight despite the pounding ache behind my eyes. "I'm sorry for the intrusion. I think I just have severe food poisoning or an extreme panic attack. My husband... my ex-husband... overreacted."

Dr. Thorne smiled faintly, drawing a privacy curtain around the bed, though she did not ask Valon to leave. In this hospital, nobody asked a Meta to leave unless they wanted their department funding audited.

"Let's run some basic panels first, Sigrid," Dr. Thorne said, placing a warm stethoscope against my back. "Take a deep breath for me."

I obeyed, staring straight ahead at the framed landscape painting on the wall. Through the thin blue curtain, I could see the tall, dark silhouette of Valon standing perfectly still near the locked door.

"When was your last menstrual cycle?" Dr. Thorne asked casually as she wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my arm.

The question hung in the quiet room like a dropped glass.

I blinked. "I... I don't remember. Six... maybe seven weeks ago? My schedule at the Northern Table has been insane. We were redesigning the autumn menu, and then the legal proceedings started—"

"Have you taken a pregnancy test recently?"

"No," I scoffed, shaking my head. "No, of course not. Valon and I... we haven't... we haven't been intimate since June."

From behind the curtain, I heard the faint, distinct rustle of Valon’s wool coat as he shifted his weight.

Dr. Thorne didn't comment. She squeezed a dollop of cold, clear gel onto a handheld ultrasound probe and turned on the monitor beside the bed.

"Lie back for me, please," she said gently.

I lay back on the crinkling paper, my hands cold, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Dr. Thorne, this is unnecessary. It's stress. My entire life is changing today."

"Just a precaution, Sigrid," the doctor murmured, placing the probe onto my lower abdomen.

The screen flickered to life in shades of gray, black, and static white. Dr. Thorne adjusted the contrast knob, her eyes scanning the digital canvas with practiced precision.

I stared at the screen, seeing only meaningless shadows.

Then, Dr. Thorne hit a toggle switch on the console.

THUMP-THUMP. THUMP-THUMP. THUMP-THUMP.

The sound burst through the small room's speaker—loud, fast, violent, and utterly undeniable. It sounded like a tiny, frantically beating drum, echoing off the tile walls, drowning out the sound of the rain outside.

My breath caught in my throat. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak.

THUMP-THUMP. THUMP-THUMP.

"154 beats per minute," Dr. Thorne said, her voice dropping into a soft, reverent tone. "Strong, steady rhythm. You are approximately eight weeks and two days pregnant, Sigrid."

A sharp, violent intake of air shattered the silence behind the curtain.

The fabric was pulled back with a sudden, forceful jerk.

Valon stood there. His face was entirely devoid of color, his dark eyes wide, fixed upon the pulsing black-and-white image flickering on the digital monitor. His hands, usually so still, so controlled, were trembling at his sides.

"Valon..." I whispered, tears suddenly blurring my vision. "Valon, I didn't know..."

He took two slow steps toward the bed, staring at the screen as if he were looking at a ghost. He reached out his right hand, hovering it an inch above my bare stomach where the cold gel glistened, then pulled it back as if he had been burned.

"Is it..." Valon’s voice cracked, a sound so entirely alien to him that even Dr. Thorne looked up in surprise. "Is it healthy?"

"Extremely healthy," Dr. Thorne replied, pointing her finger at a tiny, bean-shaped shadow nestled deep within the dark circle. "The sac is fully attached. The heart rate is exceptional. But Sigrid’s blood pressure is dangerously elevated, and she is showing signs of severe dehydration."

Valon finally pulled his eyes away from the screen and looked down at me.

The anger was gone. The coldness was gone. In their place was an overwhelming, terrifying depth of emotion that made my chest tighten until I couldn't breathe.

"Eight weeks," Valon whispered, calculating the timeline in his head. "The night at the cottage in Montauk."

The night before he locked himself in his office for two months. The night before the cold war between us became an absolute ice age.

"Sigrid," he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping into a raw, desperate plead. "You are not going to Harrison’s office today."

"Valon, we have to finish this—"

"No," he said, his hand finally coming down to rest over mine, his fingers warm, hard, and shaking. "We are not finishing anything."