Page 18 of Ivory Legacy

“Thanks,” I responded, my heart a little lighter. I placed the book back on the shelf, making a mental note to return for it later. As I left the cozy confines of the store, the crisp air greeted me again, but this time, it didn’t feel quite so cold. Harbor Cove, with its quiet charm and unexpected sanctuaries, was slowly but surely wrapping itself around my weary heart.

Chopping onions wasn’t exactly rocket science, but as my knife rhythmically diced them into uniform cubes, I found the activity soothing. The sizzle that greeted them as they hit the hot pan was my new favorite sound, a far cry from the sterile silence of BioHQ’s labs. My apartment in Harbor Cove was small, yet it offered enough space for culinary experiments. With each stir and taste, I was crafting more than just a meal; I was creating a life that was entirely mine, untethered from the shadows that had chased me here.

I glanced around the kitchenette, where pots bubbled with promise. My hands, once steady holding pipettes and petri dishes, now maneuvered spatulas and spoons with growing confidence. On tonight’s menu: a hearty vegetable stew, its recipe a page torn from a cookbook discovered during mybookstore sanctuary visit. As aromas filled the space, there was a certain irony in finding such joy in the alchemy of flavors, when my life’s work had been rooted in an entirely different kind of chemistry.

After dinner, I turned to the blank canvas propped up in the corner of the room, my makeshift studio bathed in the golden hue of the setting sun. A set of acrylics lay scattered on the floor, vibrant colors beckoning. Painting was my silent rebellion against the precision of my past—a world where every detail was measured, every outcome hypothesized. Here, the only hypothesis was what would happen if I let my heart guide my hand.

The brush felt heavy at first, as if it knew the weight of the secrets I carried. But as strokes layered upon strokes, hues blending into something unexpected, the tension eased from my shoulders. This was no data to analyze, no conclusions to draw. Just the freedom of expression, my emotions spilling onto the canvas in a riot of color that didn’t need to make sense to anyone else but me.

I stepped back, my gaze taking in the chaotic beauty of my creation. It was raw, it was real—it was me. Harbor Cove might have been a detour in my meticulously planned life journey, but as I looked around my rustic refuge, I couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, I was exactly where I needed to be.

And that was when the doorbell began to ring.

Chapter Nine: Jade

The first flutter of nerves hit me as I slid into the maternity leggings, their soft stretch a reminder of the life growing inside me. I pulled on a white cut-off shirt that hugged my burgeoning belly, a stark white canvas for the future written in the curves of my body.

I couldn’t escape from the fact that Dante had been the one to buy me these clothes…but damn, they were fancy and comfortable. The man might’ve been a little crazy, but he definitely had refined taste.

“Okay, Jade, this is it,” I muttered to myself, checking my reflection in the mirror. My dark hair framed my face, the waves serving as a gentle armor for what lay ahead. My scientific mind knew all the statistics and probabilities, but the mother-to-be in me thrived on the unknown, the emotion that couldn’t be quantified.

The clinic in Harbor Cove wouldn’t see me. They were booked up, and I wasn’t a high risk patient. I didn’t want to go back to the city…but St. Mary’s Hospital in New York City beckoned me with its sterile halls and state-of-the-art facilities—a familiar place from my past life, one that had nothing to do with Dante or the perilous love that bound us.

It was a risk, returning to the city that never sleeps, where every shadow could be an enemy in disguise. But risks were part of the equation now, and I was determined to ensure the best for my child—even if it meant facing my own fears head-on.

I just had to keep my head down. That was all I had to do.

I opted to rent a car–it had been a long time since I had to drive every day, but I enjoyed it, and it would be easier to get away if I needed to.

And so, with the decision made, I set out from Harbor Cove, where the harmonious cries of seagulls and the soothing rhythm of the ocean were about to be replaced by the relentless heartbeat of NYC.

“Please, let this go smoothly,” I whispered, not to any god in particular, but to the universe that held my fragile world in its hands.

The rental car’s engine hummed—a subtle, yet steady reminder that I was in motion, leaving behind the serene embrace of Harbor Cove. My fingers curled tighter around the steering wheel as I navigated the transitions from quaint coastal roads to the more assertive lanes of traffic drawing me back into the city’s clutches.

In an attempt to blend in with the throngs of vehicles on the interstate, I kept the car at a precise speed, neither too fast to become a beacon for highway patrol nor too slow to attract curious glances. The familiar skyline rose in the distance, tall buildings piercing the sky like needles, and my heart hammered against my chest with a cadence that mirrored the increasing pace of the city life I was approaching.

I found solace in the anonymity provided by the sunglasses perched on my nose and the baseball cap pulled low over my eyes. Each glance in the rearview mirror showed a sea of strangers—people blissfully unaware of the cargo I carried within me. The drive demanded a level of alertness that was almost exhausting, each passing mile a potential threat that I had to anticipate and outmaneuver.

As I edged closer to New York City, the soundscape evolved from the melodic whispers of the ocean to the cacophony of honking horns and the rhythmic thumping of construction. With every stoplight and intersection, I felt the tightening grip of the city—an intricate tango between freedom and entrapment where every step mattered.

“Keep it together, Jade,” I murmured to myself, using my reflection in the window as an anchor to the present moment. The city was a chessboard once, but now, I was playing a different game—one where the stakes were no longer just my own life but the fragile beginnings of another.

When the hospital’s imposing structure finally came into view, nestled among the concrete giants, I let myself feel some relief. But that relief was fleeting; the real challenge awaited inside. But for now, I parked the car in the shadow of St. Mary’s, and told myself everything was going to be just fine.

The door swung open with a click that echoed down the sterile corridor, less welcoming than necessary. I stepped across the threshold of St. Mary’s Hospital, shrouded in anonymity beneath my hat and sunglasses—a flimsy disguise against a world I once navigated with confidence. The obstetrics department was located on the third floor, according to the receptionist who barely glanced up from her novel as I inquired.

“Third floor, take a left off the elevator,” she had said without looking up. “Can’t miss it.”

I followed her directions, the tap of my boots against the polished floor counting out a steady rhythm that matched my racing heart. Anticipation twisted into a nervous coil in my stomach in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. This was a different kind of fear—a mother’s concern, protective and primal.

I reached the waiting area, a room buzzing with the low drone of shared expectancy. My gaze swept over the space, drinking in the sight of round bellies and glowing faces. Some women sat alone, engrossed in magazines or their phones, while others chatted animatedly with partners or family members. Laughter punctuated the air like soft notes in a tender melody, while children’s squeals underscored the domestic symphony.

The soundscape was a comforting cacophony: the rustle of pages turning, the murmur of conversations swirling with hope and anxiety, and the occasional name called by a nurse, each summons cutting through the gentle hum. It was an orchestra of life, each participant unknowingly playing their part in the universal score of creation.

I found an empty seat by the window, tucking myself away from the center of activity—close enough to observe but far enough to remain a spectator. Sunlight streamed through the glass, casting geometric patterns on the floor and warming my face. I watched a couple holding hands, their fingers intertwined.

Maybe, in another universe, that could’ve been Dante and I.

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