Page 66 of The Fake Affair

“I had to. Mum used it while pregnant with Audrey, after all.” The words come easier now.

After class, we walk through the maternity ward. Six months of therapy have taught me to face these fears step by step.

“Look.” Bella stops at the nursery window. Rows of newborns sleep peacefully, unaware of being watched. “That’ll be her soon.”

“She’ll be the prettiest one there.”

“Obviously. She’s a Fraser.” She bumps my shoulder. “Speaking of which, Audrey called. She’s having a boy.”

The relief in knowing my sister’s pregnancy is progressing safely has been enormous. Another fear conquered, another ghost laid to rest.

“Poor Louis,” I say. “Outnumbered by Frasers.”

“And… speaking of Louis...” She eyes me carefully. “He mentioned you’ve been asking him questions. About modern birthing procedures and safety protocols...”

I shrug, aiming for casual. “Know your enemy.”

“Birth isn’t your enemy, Logan.”

“No.” I pull her close, breathing in her familiar scent. “But fear is. And I’m done letting it win.”

She turns in my arms and studies my face. “You’ve come so far.”

“We’ve come so far.” I think about that first night on the terrace, how lost we both were, and how found we are now.

A nurse passes, pushing a bassinet. My breathing doesn’t catch at all.

“Ready to go home?” Bella asks softly.

I look around the ward one last time. These halls don’t feel like a tomb anymore. They feel like what they are—a place where life begins.

“Yeah.” I kiss her temple. “Let’s go home.”

In the car, she falls asleep almost immediately, one hand protectively over her belly. I drive carefully, thinking about everything ahead. The birth. Our daughter. The small velvet box hidden in my study.

Soon. When the time is right.

For now, I just drive, letting Manhattan’s lights paint patterns across her peaceful face. Letting myself believe in the future we’re building.

Together. Finally, completely together.

* * *

“Mr. Fraser, you need to breathe.”

The nurse’s voice barely registers. Bella’s been in labor for six hours, and every contraction sends me back to that hospital corridor twenty-eight years ago.

“The monitors are fine,” Louis reminds me, checking readings I don’t understand. “Everything is progressing normally.”

Another contraction hits. Bella grips my hand harder, and I force myself to focus on her, not the beeping machines.

“Tell me again,” she pants, “about the library you’re building her.”

I swallow hard. We’ve been doing this for hours—her asking about the nursery, keeping my mind here in the present. “Floor-to-ceiling shelves. Children’s classics in English and Gaelic. A reading nook like the one you love?—”

She cries out, and something inside me breaks.

“I can’t—” I start to pull away, the panic rising.

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