All Chapters of While Marrying Mr. Steele: Chapter 151 - Chapter 160

Amelia's povThe knock on my office door was the loudest sound I had ever heard. And it was just at the right time.For a moment, I thought my own heartbeat had found its way outside of my chest and rattled against the wood.Leo’s eyes flicked toward the door, his grip on my wrist loosening. “Expecting someone?” he asked, his tone silk and venom all at once.I swallowed, forcing my voice to work. “My next patient.”Another knock, followed by a muffled voice: “Ms. Steele? We’re here for the two-thirty appointment.”That voice—normal, human, blessedly ordinary—shattered the poisonous fog Leo had wrapped around me.He released me completely and stepped back, adjusting his cuff as if nothing had happened. “Lucky,” he muttered, his gaze locking on me, steady and deliberate. “We’ll finish this conversation later.”I didn’t breathe until he moved past me and out the side door. Only then did I sag against my desk, my phone still clenched in my shaking hand. When I opened the main door, the pa

Amelia’s POV“Rough day?” Ethan asked again, dropping his keys into the bowl by the door. "Tell me about it."I wanted to laugh, or maybe cry, because the answer was both too small and far too big for that question. I hugged the pillow tighter. “You could say that.” A part of me was deeply relieved that he was talking to me.He studied me, his shirt wrinkled, tie loose around his neck. He looked drained, the lines at the corners of his mouth etched deeper than yesterday. I hated how familiar those lines had become.“You cut your hair,” he said finally, walking closer.“Noticed, did you?” I tried for humor, but it came out brittle.“Hard not to.” He tilted his head, scanning me like he wasn’t sure whether he liked it. “What made you do it?”I hesitated. The scissors, the strands, the desperate need to shed a piece of myself—none of it would make sense to him. “Felt like time for a change,” I said simply.His brow furrowed, but he didn’t press. Instead, he sank into the armchair across

Ethan’s POVThe morning after the ball, the house was too quiet. No clinking of mugs, no soft hum of Amelia moving through the kitchen the way she usually did. I hadn’t slept. The couch had been stiff and unwelcoming, but it wasn’t the reason. It was Sienna’s perfume still lodged in my head, the press headlines replaying themselves, the haunting image of Leo—Daniel—smirking at cameras like he owned the narrative.By the time Amelia appeared in the doorway, hair tied up in a loose knot, the weariness on her face mirrored my own. But she tried to soften it with a smile.“Coffee?” she asked, holding up a fresh pot like an offering.I hesitated before nodding. “Sure.”She poured two mugs and set one in front of me at the table. Her hands lingered on the rim of her cup, twisting slightly as though the ceramic might crack if she let go.“We need to talk,” she said finally.I almost laughed. The words were so familiar by now they might as well be carved above our doorframe. But something i

Amelia’s POV“Shit.”The curse slipped out as a pickle jar clanged against the fridge shelf. Midnight, and there I was—barefoot, hair in a messy knot that had given up hours ago, rummaging like a raccoon.I froze, jar in one hand, carton of chocolate milk in the other. Behind me came the shuffle of heavy footsteps, then Ethan’s gravelly voice, thick with sleep.“…Please tell me you’re not about to drink pickle juice with chocolate milk.”I turned slowly, guilty as a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “It’s called cravings. Don’t judge me.”He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. His T-shirt clung to him in all the unfair ways, and his hair stuck up like he’d been in a bar fight with his pillow. He scratched the side of his beard, blinking blearily.“That’s not cravings, Amelia. That’s a cry for help.”I rolled my eyes, twisting the pickle jar open with a satisfying pop. “Go back to bed, caveman. You’re useless to me right now.”“Useless?” He straightened,

Ethan’s POV)“Amelia…stay awake.” Blue lights strobed across the inside of the ambulance as I sat strapped to the bench, one hand locked around hers. Her skin was clammy, pale, but her grip squeezed back, faint and shaky.“Stay with me, baby. Just stay with me,” I muttered, trying to sound calm, but my voice cracked on every word.She blinked slowly, whispering, “I’m fine. It’s just… my stomach feels tight.”That word—stomach—hit me like a blade. Not her. Not the baby.I turned to the paramedic. “She’s pregnant. Just a month. We—we just came from the doctor. We heard the heartbeat.” My words tumbled out like loose stones. “Is she bleeding? Do you see anything? Is the baby—”The paramedic’s tone was steady, practiced. “Sir, we’re monitoring her. No visible bleeding. Vitals are holding. But we’ll get her scanned as soon as we arrive. Focus on keeping her calm.”Calm? My chest felt like it was splitting apart.I leaned close, brushing Amelia’s damp hair back from her face. “You hear tha