Page 77 of Under His Control
I don’t argue.
CHAPTER 30
TAYLOR
Dr. Marsh referred me to Dr. Evelyn Harper, an OB/GYN who’s apparently delivered half the babies in Vegas and still manages to look like she sleeps eight hours a night.
Her office is tucked into a fancy medical building off the Strip—cozy, with buttery walls, a shelf of baby books, and a sign near the check-in that says,“Your miracle is my mission.”
A little cheesy, but I’m hormonal, so it works.
“Taylor!” Dr. Harper greets me with a genuine smile and a handshake that’s firm without being clinical. “It’s good to meet you. Dr. Marsh said you’re a bit of a miracle yourself.”
I offer a weak smile. “I think that was her polite way of saying high-maintenance.”
She laughs, eyes crinkling. “Well, we love a good challenge around here. Let’s see how your little one’s doing.”
A few minutes later, I’m lying back on the exam table, shirt lifted, cold gel splattered across my belly like I’m a science experiment. Dr. Harper moves the wand in small circles,frowning at the screen with that focused doctor face that makes me instantly nervous.
My heart stutters. “Is everything okay?”
She doesn’t panic, doesn’t flinch. Just simply adjusts the wand and murmurs, “Let’s try a different angle.”
Another second ticks by. And then?—
The sound of a rapid, thumping heartbeat fills the room. My breath catches.
“There’s your baby,” Dr. Harper says softly, her smile blooming. “And that is one strong heartbeat.”
I laugh and cry all at once, covering my mouth with my hand as relief and joy hit me like a tidal wave. “Oh my God. I didn’t even think this was possible.”
She nods knowingly, handing me a few printed sonogram pictures. “You beat the odds. That little heartbeat? That’s real. And you’re going to be a mom.”
I cradle the blurry photo in my hands like it’s solid gold. “Holy shit.”
Dr. Harper chuckles. “Exactly.”
By the time I leave, I feel like I’m floating, but the moment the office door closes behind me, reality slides in again. I press the sonogram picture to my chest, eyes stinging.
Anatoly doesn’t know. And for now, he can’t.
This baby’s mine. This hope is mine.
At least for a little while longer.
By 10-:30 a.m., I’m back at work and already on my third cup of decaf.
Two front desk clerks are out—one with the flu, the other with a sick toddler—and I’m bouncing between check-ins, room upgrades, and a VIP from hell.
By noon, I’ve clocked more steps than most people do in a day, and my stomach is protesting the protein bar I inhaled in the service hallway between guests. I love this job, but today it’s chewing me up and spitting me out.
The only thing keeping me upright is the thought of a long bath, a fluffy robe, and maybe someLove Is Blindwhile waiting for Anatoly to get home. That, and the fact that my baby—my miracle baby—is growing quietly inside me like a secret treasure.
The thought still makes my heart squeeze in disbelief. All those years of doctors shaking their heads and using words like “ovarian damage” and “not likely.” And now, somehow, this. It feels like fate handed me a second chance.
Anatoly texts as I’m answering a call about spa availability.
Running late. Meeting with real estate people. Be home soon.
