Chapter 41

Chapter 41

Harper

Third trimester arrived with swollen ankles, an inability to see my own feet, and a level of exhaustion I hadn’t fully anticipated despite months of preparation.

“You should be resting,” Damian said, finding me attempting to reorganize the nursery closet for the third time that week.

“I’m nesting.”

“You’re supposed to nest sitting down.”

“That’s not how nesting works.”

He gently pried the folded onesies from my hands, guiding me toward the small armchair we’d added specifically for this purpose. “Sit. Direct. I’ll organize.”

“You don’t know how to organize a nursery closet.”

“I run a multi-billion dollar company, Harper. I think I can manage folded baby clothes.”

I laughed, settling into the chair despite my protests, watching him attempt to categorize tiny socks with the same serious focus he brought to boardroom negotiations. Something about the sight, absurd and tender all at once, made my chest ache with affection.

“You’re doing it wrong,” I said eventually, watching him organize by color instead of size.

“There’s a wrong way?”

“Apparently.”

He turned, exasperated affection written clearly across his face. “Then guide me, wise one.”

I did, directing him through proper organization while he complained good-naturedly about the apparently endless variety of baby clothing categories nobody warned him existed before parenthood.

Midway through, a sharp pain radiated across my lower back, sudden enough that I gasped audibly.

Damian was beside me instantly, concern immediately replacing his earlier teasing. “What’s wrong?”

“Just a cramp,” I said, though the pain lingered longer than typical back pain usually did. “Braxton Hicks, probably.”

“Should we call the doctor?”

“I’m only thirty-two weeks, Damian. It’s probably nothing.”

But another pain followed minutes later, sharper this time, enough to steal my breath entirely.

“That’s not nothing,” Damian said, already reaching for his phone. “We’re calling the doctor.”

The doctor’s office instructed us to come in immediately, cautious given the early timing, and within twenty minutes we found ourselves back in the same familiar exam room where we’d first heard this baby’s heartbeat months earlier.

“Your blood pressure’s elevated,” the doctor said, reviewing monitors with careful attention. “Combined with the contractions you’re describing, I’d like to keep you overnight for observation.”

Fear flickered sharp and immediate across Damian’s expression, the same controlled panic I imagined he’d once shown during his late wife’s own complicated pregnancy years earlier.

“Is the baby okay?” he asked, voice tighter than usual.

“Heartbeat’s strong,” the doctor reassured us. “But preeclampsia at this stage requires careful monitoring. We want to prevent complications before they become serious.”

The next several hours passed in a blur of monitors and careful observation, Damian never leaving my side despite Mason’s increasingly frantic calls about a delayed shareholder meeting.

“Go,” I told him eventually. “The meeting matters.”

“You matter more.”

“Damian.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said firmly. “Mason can handle one meeting without me. This is exactly where I need to be.”

Something in his voice, steady and absolutely certain, reminded me completely why I’d fallen in love with this complicated man in the first place. The Damian who once buried himself entirely in work, avoiding emotional vulnerability at every possible turn, now sat beside a hospital bed refusing to leave my side despite genuine professional consequences.

By morning, my blood pressure had stabilized somewhat, the doctor cautiously optimistic about continuing the pregnancy without immediate delivery, though strict bed rest became non-negotiable for the remaining weeks.

“You’re stuck with me at home,” I told Damian as we prepared to leave the hospital. “Full-time supervision required, apparently.”

“I can manage that.”

“You have an entire company to run.”

“I can run it from home,” he said. “I’ve already spoken with Mason. Most meetings can happen remotely for the next several weeks.”

“You don’t have to sacrifice everything for this.”

“I’m not sacrificing anything,” Damian said, cupping my face gently. “I’m choosing exactly where I need to be. There’s a difference.”

Damian

The following weeks unfolded slower than either of us anticipated, Harper confined mostly to bed rest while I balanced remote meetings with near-constant attention to her comfort and wellbeing.

Lily took her role as “helper” with characteristic enthusiasm, appointing herself in charge of ensuring Harper never lacked snacks, water, or entertainment.

“You need a puzzle,” she announced one afternoon, arriving with an elaborate five-hundred-piece puzzle depicting, unsurprisingly, unicorns in space.

“I appreciate the effort,” Harper said, amused. “Though I’m not sure I have the patience for five hundred pieces right now.”

“I’ll help. We have time. You’re stuck here anyway.”

Harper laughed, pulling our daughter close despite the awkward angle bed rest required. “You’re right. We have time.”

Watching them together, patient and gentle in ways I’d once believed impossible for myself to model properly, something settled warmly and completely in my chest. Whatever fear had gripped me during those initial hours at the hospital, watching Harper and Lily now, laughter filling a room that could have easily been consumed by anxiety instead, reminded me exactly how much stronger we’d become together.

Richard visited regularly during those weeks, surprising both of us with his consistent presence, often bringing small gifts or simply sitting quietly beside Harper’s bed, offering company rather than advice.

“You didn’t have to keep coming,” Harper told him one afternoon.

“I wanted to,” Richard said simply. “I missed enough of Damian’s early years, worrying more about business than presence. I don’t intend to repeat that mistake with this grandchild.”

“You’re not repeating it,” Harper said gently. “You’re actively choosing differently. That matters.”

Something shifted behind Richard’s careful composure, gratitude and quiet emotion he rarely allowed himself to display fully. “Thank you, Harper. For giving this family the chance to actually heal properly.”

By week thirty-seven, Harper’s blood pressure had stabilized enough for the doctor to clear a return to normal activity, cautious optimism replacing weeks of careful anxiety.

“We made it,” Harper said, relief evident in her voice as we left the doctor’s office together.

“We made it,” I confirmed, pulling her carefully into an embrace, mindful of her rounded stomach between us. “Three more weeks, give or take.”

“Three more weeks,” she echoed, something equal parts excited and nervous in her tone.

That evening, sitting together on our balcony, watching early summer stars scatter across a clearing sky, Harper rested her head against my shoulder, exhaustion and contentment mixing peacefully together.

“Scared?” I asked.

“Terrified,” she admitted. “In the best possible way.”

“I know that feeling well.”

“You’ve done this before, though. With Lily.”

“Every pregnancy feels entirely new,” I said honestly. “Every fear feels exactly as overwhelming, regardless of experience.”

Harper smiled, pressing closer against my side. “At least we’re terrified together this time.”

“Always together,” I confirmed, pressing a gentle kiss against her temple. “Whatever comes next, we’ll face it exactly the way we’ve faced everything else.”

Because we weren’t facing any of it alone. We never would again.