Page 144 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
Thirty weeks.
I smooth my hand over the curve of my stomach, feeling the tiny flutter of movement just beneath the surface. It’s stronger now. Every day my little nugget makes themself more known, and every day the reality roots itself deeper in my chest.
I’m going to be a mother.
The ultrasound tech smiles warmly as she adjusts the wand, angling it for a better view. "Let's see if someone feels like cooperating today."
I hold my breath, irrationally nervous.
The last two appointments had been exercises in stubbornness—crossed legs, turned back, absolute refusal to reveal anything. The nugget’s first act of rebellion.
Max had declared it proof that they had my spirit.
Today, though, the image on the screen sharpens.
"There’s your baby," the tech says, tilting the monitor toward me. "And…congratulations. It's a girl."
A girl.
The words echo through my head, ricocheting off every wall, every deeply hidden hope I hadn’t dared give voice to.
A girl.
I don’t realize I’m crying until Sebastian’s hand slides wipes my tears away.
Max leans in from the other side, his smile so wide it borders on ridiculous, his eyes glassy.
Silas presses a kiss to the crown of my head, whispering against my hair. “She’s going to be just like her momma. Brilliant and beautiful.”
A girl.
I stare at the monitor, at the tiny curve of her spine, the delicate flutter of her heartbeat, the way she kicks and squirms with a stubborn determination.
Ours.
I brush a hand over my belly, feeling the press of her from the inside, the weight of her.
She’s real. She’s ours.
And she’s perfect.
The tech prints out a new set of photos, handing them to me with a smile. I clutch them carefully in both hands, afraid that if I hold them too tightly, I’ll crush them. I’m also afraid that if I don’t hold on tightly enough, they’ll disappear.
Sebastian doesn’t speak. He just leans closer, pressing his forehead lightly against the side of my head for a moment, a rare crack in his usual unshakable armor.
As we walk out of the building into the late afternoon sun, I catch sight of our reflection in the glass doors—me in the center, flanked on either side by men who would set fire to the world to protect what we’re building.
The image sticks with me.
It’s not traditional.
But it’s mine.
And it’s everything.
* * *
I pause just beyond the doorway, one hand braced on the wall for balance, the other resting automatically on my stomach, where the baby stirs with a restless kick.
