LOGINI had negotiated billion-dollar contracts without breaking a sweat. I had stared down hostile investors, ruthless competitors, and economic disasters that could have destroyed entire companies. None of that prepared me for watching my wife go into labor. Nothing in my life had ever made me feel this helpless. The drive to the hospital felt like the longest thirty minutes of my life. Ava sat beside me in the passenger seat, breathing slowly the way the doctor had taught her during our prenatal classes. One hand clutched the seatbelt while the other pressed against the curve of her stomach. Another contraction hit. Her breath caught. “Hon…” “I’m here,” I said instantly, my voice tight. Her fingers reached for my arm, gripping hard. I kept one hand on the wheel and the other over hers. “Breathe, Hon. Slow breaths.” She nodded, focusing, inhaling through her nose and releasing the air carefully. I had memorized the rhythm. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. But even as she controlled
KAEL POV Nine months. Nine long, fragile, terrifying months. If someone had told me that time could move both painfully slow and frighteningly fast at the same time, I might have laughed. But now I understood. Because every single day since that night in the hospital had felt like walking across a bridge made of glass—careful, deliberate, always afraid the next step might shatter everything. And yet somehow, unbelievably, we had made it here. To the final days. To the moment we had been fighting for since the beginning. The twins were coming. The villa was quiet that morning. Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains of our bedroom, painting soft gold across the walls and the pale wood floor. Outside, the ocean breeze carried the distant sound of waves against the rocks below the cliffs. Peaceful. Calm. The kind of morning most people would find relaxing. But my chest was tight with anticipation. I stood beside the bed, watching Ava sleep. Her breathing was slow an
The promise lingered between us. “We will.” Kael had said it like a vow carved into stone. Like something unbreakable. But my body felt fragile. The pain hadn’t disappeared. It had only softened into something quieter a low, persistent ache deep inside me, as if my womb were holding its breath. The warmth between my legs had slowed, but every time I shifted even slightly, I felt a phantom panic, expecting more blood. The monitors beside me continued their rhythm. Thug. Thug. Thug-thug. Two separate patterns. Two tiny lives. Still there. Still fighting. Kael hadn’t moved from my side. Not when the nurses adjusted the IV. Not when they checked my blood pressure. Not when they replaced the soaked hospital pad beneath me. He saw it. The blood. Even though he pretended not to. His jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before smoothing back into composure. But I knew him. And I knew that look. It was the look he wore when he was holding back a storm. Another cramp
AVA POV The pain didn’t start sharply. It came like a whisper first, a soft, uneasy twinge deep in my belly. I ignored it. After all, subtle aches had been my constant companions for months. But then the warmth spread, creeping down between my legs. My hand flew instinctively to the source, and the sight made my stomach drop before my mind could catch up. Blood. Bright, unmistakable. My breath hitched. “Hon…” I called him, barely more than a trembling sound. The word felt like a lifeline thrown into the void, but the panic in my own voice betrayed me. He was there in an instant. I didn’t even remember moving, didn’t remember my knees giving way. His arms surrounded me before I could collapse, and for a second, the world narrowed to his warmth, his steady presence, the sound of his voice. “Hey, hey… it’s okay,” he murmured, pressing me gently against him. His hands didn’t shake, but I could feel the tension through the grip of his fingers on mine. “I’ve got you. I won’t let any
By the time we reached the third trimester, I allowed myself to believe we had survived the hardest part. Ava’s belly was round and heavy now, stretching beautifully beneath the soft fabric of her dress as she moved slowly across the bedroom. The nursery was finished. The hospital bag sat half-packed in the closet. We had crossed into that phase of anticipation the quiet, sacred waiting. We were close. So close. Close enough that I could almost hear the future breathing. That morning was supposed to be routine. Just another scheduled ultrasound to monitor growth. Nothing alarming. Nothing dramatic. We walked into the clinic hand in hand, like we always did. “You’re tense,” she said “I’m not.” “You are.” I exhaled lightly. “It’s a habit.” She smiled, rubbing her belly gently. “They’re kicking more today.” I crouched slightly, placing my palm over the curve. “Behave,” I murmured. “You’re making your mother uncomfortable.” She laughed softly. And for a moment, everythi
Time moved differently after we heard the heartbeat. Not slower. Not faster. Just differently. Measured no longer in contracts signed or meetings closed but in weeks. Seven weeks. Ten weeks. Twelve. Every Monday became sacred. Another week stronger. Another week closer. And yet, the first months were nothing like the glowing pregnancy stories people liked to romanticize. They were hard. Harder than anything I expected. First Trimester The nausea started before the sun most mornings. Sometimes before dawn. I would wake up to the slightest shift in the bed a sharp inhale, a sudden movement and before I could even process it, Ava would already be rushing to the bathroom. I learned the sound of it. The rhythm of it. The way her breathing changed right before it happened. And every single time, my chest would tighten. I would follow her instantly. Always. Kneeling beside her. Holding her hair back. Rubbing her back in slow circles. Whispering reassurances even wh







