Chapter 1 - The Blood Test
Dr. Mercer offered a gentle, reassuring smile as she stepped further into the private examination room. "I’m Dr. Mercer. Mr. Cross informed us that you’ve been experiencing severe nausea and exhaustion for the past two weeks."
I sat on the edge of the examination table, my hands tightly clutched in my lap. Dorian stood near the heavy wooden door, his tall frame blocking the exit like a silent, immovable sentinel. His dark eyes hadn't left my face since we entered the building.
"I told him it was just stress and motion sickness," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "We were in the middle of signing our divorce papers when my stomach turned."
Dr. Mercer glanced briefly at Dorian, picking up on the thick, suffocating tension filling the air. She pulled a rolling stool over and sat directly in front of me. "Well, stress can certainly manifest physically, Alina, but given your symptoms, we should run a comprehensive blood panel and an ultrasound just to rule out any immediate gastrointestinal or hormonal complications."
"An ultrasound?" I echoed, my throat tightening.
"Standard procedure for acute abdominal discomfort and persistent nausea," Dr. Mercer replied smoothly, reaching for a venipuncture kit.
As the nurse stepped forward to draw three vials of blood from my arm, I kept my gaze fixed on the sterile floor. I couldn't look at Dorian. I could feel the intense, burning focus of his gaze on the side of my face. He knew. Deep down, despite my desperate denials, we both knew what this meant.
Ten minutes later, the nurse left with the blood samples, leaving the three of us in a heavy, fragile silence.
"You can wait outside, Dorian," I said, staring straight ahead. "I'm sure you have business calls to make."
"I'm staying," he answered simply. His voice carried that familiar, quiet authority that left no room for negotiation.
"Why?" I snapped, finally looking up to meet his dark eyes. "You pushed me out of your life six months ago! You sent your lawyer with divorce papers three weeks ago! You gave up on us, Dorian. You don't get to stand here and play the caring husband now."
A muscle twitched in his jaw. For a fraction of a second, raw, agonized emotion broke through his impenetrable facade, but he quickly masked it. "I am not leaving this room, Alina. Not today."
Before I could fire back, Dr. Mercer re-entered the room carrying a thin manila folder and wheeling a compact ultrasound machine toward the bed. Her expression was neutral, but her eyes held a quiet warmth.
"The lab rushed your preliminary hormone panel," Dr. Mercer said gently, opening the folder. She looked up and met my eyes. "Your human chorionic gonadotropin levels are extremely high, Alina. You aren't suffering from carsickness."
My breath hitched. The air left my lungs all at once.
"You are approximately eight weeks pregnant," Dr. Mercer announced softly. "Congratulations."
The world seemed to stop spinning. The hum of the fluorescent lights, the distant siren out on the street, the ticking clock on the wall—everything vanished. I placed a trembling hand over my stomach. Eight weeks. Two months.
I slowly turned my head toward Dorian.
The ruthless king of Chicago's underworld looked completely shattered. He stumbled back half a step, his back hitting the wall. The color had drained entirely from his face, and his breath came in ragged, shallow hitches. He looked at my stomach, then up at my eyes, a terrifying mix of awe, desperate love, and absolute terror swirling in his dark gaze.
"A baby..." Dorian choked out, the word sounding foreign and heavy on his lips.
"Let's take a look at our little patient," Dr. Mercer said gently, attempting to break the crushing tension. She squeezed a cool, clear gel onto my lower abdomen and pressed the transducer wand against my skin.
The monitor flickered to life, displaying a grainy, grayscale image. Dr. Mercer adjusted the dial, and suddenly, a rhythmic, rapid beating sound filled the quiet room.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
It was the fastest, most beautiful sound I had ever heard. Tears spilled over my eyelashes and tracked down my cheeks.
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Dorian crossed the room in two long strides. He didn't ask for permission. He reached out and grabbed my hand, squeezing it so tightly his knuckles turned white. His hand was trembling uncontrollably.
"Look at that, Alina," he whispered, his voice cracking down the middle as he stared at the screen, tears glimmering in his own eyes. "That's our baby."
