Chapter 2: Life—and the Price Paid

"The child… is it a boy or a girl?"

The voice was calm, yet carried an unignorable firmness. Leonard turned slowly. Standing there was Margaret Ashcroft — the woman who had been the pillar of this entire family, whose words were never merely spoken, but obeyed. The elderly woman’s face showed little emotion, yet her gaze waited for the answer as if the fate of the whole world depended upon it.

The doctor drew a quiet breath. "The baby is a girl."

That single word fell so lightly, barely making a sound. Yet for Leonard, it pressed in upon his chest, slowly tightening further and further.

The doctor regarded him with professional composure. "The baby is stable. We will move her to the special neonatal care unit. For an eight-month premature infant, her condition is very good."

Leonard did not answer right away. His gaze drifted far away.

A girl.

Not something he and Arabella had ever fixed their hopes upon — or rather, not something they had ever concerned themselves with. In truth, they had chosen not to know the baby’s gender from the very beginning. To them, it would be a beautiful surprise when their child arrived. Their child — a precious gift, equally valuable whether boy or girl. It made no difference at all.

But clearly, the same did not apply to the Ashcroft family.

Leonard glanced toward his grandmother. Margaret stood straight, her lips pressed firmly together. For her, the rightful heir to the Ashcroft name, fortune, and company could only be male. That belief had been etched into place since Leonard was a small boy.

"And my wife?" he asked at last, his voice flat.

The doctor sighed softly. "We are still working to stabilize her condition. The injuries are severe — head trauma, internal bleeding, and… significant damage to the facial area."

Leonard stiffened. "Her face is damaged? Will she survive?"

"It is too early to say. The next twenty-four hours are the most critical."

The corridor seemed to fall silent all at once. Not because sound had vanished — but because everything felt distant, out of reach.

Leonard nodded slowly, as if accepting it.

"May I see my child?"

The doctor nodded. "Follow me."

The neonatal unit was filled with the soft, rhythmic hum of machines. The lighting was dim, the air clean and cool. The faint, sharp scent of medicine lingered.

A nurse stopped before an incubator.

"This is your daughter."

Leonard stepped closer.

And there she was.

Tiny, reddened skin, her breath rising and falling gently supported by the machines around her.

His child.

His daughter.

Leonard stood looking at her for a long time. Something stirred within his chest. Not an instant, blooming love — not yet. But he did not feel entirely empty, either.

Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted his hand and touched the glass.

"She is a strong little one," the nurse said gently. "Just like her mother."

Those words made him uneasy, somehow.

Just like her mother.

The woman now lying between life and death. The woman who might never be the same again.

Leonard drew his hand back.

"Thank you," he said briefly, and turned away. He asked nothing more. He did not linger. He did not try to understand the feeling beginning to take shape — or perhaps failing to take shape — inside him.

When he returned to the corridor, the air felt colder. Leonard stood before the doors of the intensive care unit. They were closed. Behind them, Arabella fought for her life.

His hands curled into fists. Not out of grief.

Footsteps approached. Margaret Ashcroft walked steadily toward him, her attire still immaculate, her expression composed.

"Leon…" she said softly, yet with unmistakable authority.

Leonard turned.

"I have heard the news," Margaret said quietly but firmly. "Arabella’s condition…"

"Critical," Leonard cut in. "It is still unknown whether she will pull through."

Margaret nodded slowly, then looked him deep in the eyes.

"And your child… is a girl."

It was not a question.

"Yes."

Margaret breathed out, a long sigh carrying disappointment she could no longer hide.

"You know how it is, Leon. This family has rules that have never been broken. The heir to Ashcroft must be male. Only a son is fit to lead the company and uphold the family name."

Leonard looked away. He knew. He had heard it all his life. Yet he and Arabella had always believed — our child, whatever their gender, we will love them. We will prove that none of this matters.

Now, in this moment, that conviction felt fragile.

"You both chose not to know beforehand," Margaret continued, her tone softening as if in understanding, though her words remained sharp. "It is a lovely thought, truly. But the world does not work that way. This company is not just ours. So many people depend upon it."

Leonard lowered his head. He had no argument to give.

"If Arabella…" Margaret paused, choosing her words carefully. "If she does not recover fully, or if your wife… does not return to us…"

"Grandmother," Leonard’s voice trembled. "She nearly died saving me."

"I know," Margaret answered calmly. "And my heart goes out to her. But you must think clearly. What will she look like? How will her health be? What will people say of this family? Reputation is priceless, Leon."

Leonard fell silent. He thought of Arabella’s face — how it used to light up whenever she looked at him. A face that might never be the same again.

"I need time," he said at last.

Margaret nodded gently, resting a hand on his arm.

"Think carefully, my boy. Do not let pity cost you everything. You are our only grandson. The future of this family rests on your shoulders."

She turned and walked away, leaving Leonard alone before those closed doors.

Moments later, the door opened. The doctor stepped out quickly.

"Mr. Ashcroft?"

Leonard stepped forward at once. "My wife?"

"Your wife has regained consciousness," the doctor said.

Leonard’s heart seemed to stop beating. Awake. That meant he would see her — speak to her — look at her — like this.

"However," the doctor continued, "she remains very weak. And she may not yet fully understand what has happened to her."

"I want to see her."

The doctor studied him for a moment, then nodded. "But only briefly."

The door opened. Cold air greeted him. The steady beep of machines filled the room. And there, in the bed — Arabella lay frail and still. Her body looked so small. Her face was wrapped in bandages, almost entirely covered. Only a small section remained visible — and even that was enough to make his chest ache with tightness.

Leonard walked slowly forward. Every step felt heavy. As though he were approaching something he wanted to turn away from, yet could not escape.

He stopped beside the bed. Arabella’s fingers moved — faintly, weakly.

"Leon…" Her voice was barely a whisper.

It was enough to make the whole world fall quiet around him.

Leonard looked at her. The woman who had risked everything to save him. The woman who was no longer the same.

And without meaning to — he took a small step back.

Arabella saw it. Even through blurred vision, even through fading awareness — she saw it. The distance. The change.

With the last of her strength, she whispered softly,

"Leon… it’s me. Why won’t you come closer?"