Page 4 of Bound in Matrimony

The elevator dings, announcing an arrival. Knox is immediately alert, hand instinctively reaching for his phone—his modern weapon of choice.

"That would be the pediatrician," he says, checking the security feed on his watch. "The fourth one this week."

"Knox, we don't need to interview every pediatrician in Manhattan."

He stands, dusting off his hands on his thousand-dollar slacks without a thought for the fabric. "Not every pediatrician. Just the top twenty. I've narrowed it down to three finalists based on their credentials, but I need to assess their decision-making processes under pressure."

"You're not going to interrogate this one like you did the last, are you? That poor woman practically ran from the building."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "If she can't handle me, she can't be trusted with our daughter's health."

He strides from the room, purpose in every step. I heave myself out of the glider to follow, curious despite myself. Knox's version of "daddy mode" is unlike anything I've ever witnessed.

In the living room, a petite woman with silver-streaked dark hair and intelligent eyes waits, seemingly unfazed by the grandeur of the penthouse or the security check she undoubtedly endured downstairs.

"Dr. Winters," Knox greets her, his CEO voice in full effect. "Thank you for coming."

"Mr. Vance." She nods, then turns her warm gaze to me. "And you must be Mrs. Vance. How are you feeling?"

Before I can answer, Knox interjects, "She's experiencing mild lower back discomfort and occasional round ligament pain. Her sleep is disrupted approximately 3.2 times per night for urination. I've implemented a pregnancy pillow system and adjusted her diet to optimize comfort and nutrition."

I stare at him, caught between embarrassment and amazement. The fact that he's tracking my bathroom visits should disturb me. Instead, I find myself oddly touched.

Dr. Winters's expression doesn't change, though I catch a flicker of something—amusement? approval?—in her eyes. "I see Mr. Vance is thorough in his observations. But I'd like to hear from Mrs. Vance herself."

"I'm doing well," I say, sinking onto the sofa. "And please, call me Seraphina."

The interview proceeds with Knox firing precisely calibrated questions at Dr. Winters. His research is evident—he knows her publication history, her stance on vaccination schedules, her approach to antibiotic use. He presents her with hypothetical emergency scenarios, timing her responses with the subtle glance at his watch that I've come to recognize.

What surprises me most is his detailed knowledge of infant development and care. This man, who six months ago probably couldn't differentiate a bassinet from a bouncer, now discusses the merits of different swaddling techniques and the optimal room temperature for newborn sleep with the confidence of a veteran parent.

"Your approach to sleep training?" he asks, making a note on his tablet.

"I believe in responsive parenting that considers the individual child's temperament," Dr. Winters replies calmly. "Some infants respond well to gentle sleep training methodsaround four months, while others may need different approaches."

"Unacceptable," Knox says flatly. "I need specific protocols, not generalities."

I expect Dr. Winters to be intimidated. Instead, she looks him directly in the eye. "Mr. Vance, if you want a pediatrician who will give you rigid protocols without considering your daughter as an individual, I'm not the right doctor for your family. Children aren't corporations. They don't respond to flowcharts and efficiency metrics."

I brace myself for Knox's infamous temper. To my shock, he nods, looking almost…impressed?

"A fair point, Dr. Winters. Continue."

The interview lasts another forty-five minutes, during which I watch Knox in growing wonder. When did this happen? When did the man who once told me that children were "inefficient uses of resources" transform into someone who can debate the merits of different diapering systems with scholarly intensity?

After Dr. Winters leaves—with Knox actually shaking her hand, a sure sign of approval—he returns to his crib assembly project, pausing only to help me up from the sofa with gentle hands.

"She's acceptable," he announces. "Her stance on antibiotic stewardship aligns with current research, and she didn't flinch when I questioned her credentials."

"She's the first one you haven't immediately rejected," I observe, following him back to the nursery.

"She's the first one who stood her ground." He kneels again beside the half-assembled crib. "Our daughter needs advocates, not yes-men."

Our daughter. The simple phrase sends a wave of emotion through me so powerful I have to grip the doorframe.

Knox notices immediately, his head snapping up, eyes sharp with concern. "What is it? Pain? Contraction?"

"No," I assure him quickly. "Just…thinking."

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