Page 108 of Inked Athena

“Mr. Litvinov! And this must be Mrs. Nova.” She beams at me like we’re old friends. “We’re so delighted to have you here with us today. Dr. MacPherson’s been reviewing your file personally.”

Of course he has. My mountain of a man may act like this is just another Tuesday morning, but I know better. The way his hand stays pressed against my lower back, the slight tension in his jaw—he’s been planning this appointment down to the smallest detail.

Grams squeezes my fingers as we settle into the plush chairs. “Remember when we used to play doctor with your dolls?” she whispers. “You always insisted on being both the doctor and the worried mama.”

I let out a teary laugh. How many times did I drag my toy medical kit to her apartment, seeking refuge from the chaos at home? She never turned me away, not once.

“I still have that little stethoscope,” she continues. “Been saving it, just in case.”

My eyes burn. Stupid pregnancy hormones. “Grams…”

“None of that now, sweetness.” She pats my cheek. “Save the waterworks for when you see your little one.”

Before I can respond, a nurse appears. “Ms. Pierce? We’re ready for you.”

Sam helps me up, and as we follow the nurse down the hallway, I catch his reflection in a glass panel. His face is carved from stone, but his eyes—his eyes tell a different story.

He’s just as nervous as I am.

The exam room is warm and dim, like a cocoon. I lie back on the padded table, my hand finding Sam’s as the technician bustles around with practiced efficiency. Her Scottish lilt reminds me of Mrs. Morris as she explains each step, each piece of equipment.

“This might be a wee bit cold,” she warns, squirting gel onto my stomach.

I flinch at the temperature, and Sam’s fingers tighten around mine. His thumb traces circles on my palm—the same soothing pattern he uses when I wake from nightmares.

The technician’s wand glides over my belly as she chatters with Grams about the weather, but I barely register their voices over thewhoosh-whooshsound filling the room. Is that?—?

“Ah, there we are.” The technician taps a few keys, freezing the image. “Look at that strong heartbeat.”

“Just like her grandmother.” Grams leans forward, squinting at the screen. “I had two miscarriages before Nova’s father, you know. The doctor said my heart wasn’t strong enough to carry, but I showed him.”

The technician laughs appreciatively. “We do love to see fighting genes in our mamas-to-be. And it’s so nice to have this many generations here for support! Will other grandparents be joining for future visits?”

The technician’s innocent question slices through our bubble of calm.

Sam goes completely still beside me. The temperature plummets.

My heart aches at the thought of the empty spaces in this room. Two ghosts hover at the edges of our happiness—a junkie who sold her son for a fix, and a man who recorded the transaction just to torture that same little boy for decades.

The worst part? I can picture exactly how this sceneshould’veplayed out. In a different world, a better world, Leonid would’ve worn that pinched expression he gets whenever something threatens his control. He’d lean against the wall, pretending indifference, but there’d be a heart beating beneath that mask that would love his grandson like no other.

And Samuil’s mother? In that parallel universe where she chose her son over her addiction, she’d be here clutching Sam’s other hand, weeping with joy over her first grandchild.

Instead, we have these shadows. These what-ifs. These could-have-beens. These severed, bleeding stumps of the family tree.

“We’re keeping things intimate for now,” I cut in quickly, forcing brightness into my voice. “Just immediate family.”

The technician’s professional smile never wavers as she positions the wand. “Right then. Well, let’s see what we can see, shall we?”

I hold my breath, grateful when she launches into technical explanations about measurements and markers and this and that. It’s all gibberish to me right now. Sam’s grip on my hand remains vise-like, but I feel the exact moment some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

This is our family now—the one we’re building together. The one we chose. The one that includes my grandmother’s gentle wisdom and Hope’s infectious laughter, but not the grim shadows of our pasts.

The technician adjusts something on her screen, and suddenly, a new rapid swooshing fills the room. “Ah-ha! There we are,” she says softly. “That’s your baby’s heartbeat.”

I can’t breathe. My world narrows to the grainy black-and-white image on the screen, to the frenetic flutter that means our baby is alive. Real. Growing inside me.

Sam’s fingers crush mine, but I barely notice the pain. I’m too busy memorizing every detail of this moment—the catch in Grams’s breath, the way Hope sniffles behind me, the steadythump-thump-thumpthat proves Sam and I made something miraculous together.

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