Page 42 of Her Ex's Father
The curtains are drawn, the room dim. Madeline is curled on the bed, pale against the sheets, one hand pressed to her stomach and her face turned into the pillow.
“Maddie.” I cross the room in seconds, panic washing over me in waves.
She opens her eyes, hazy, and tries for a smile. “Sorry. I didn’t… feel well enough for lunch.”
Her voice is thready. I crouch beside her, pressing the back of my hand to her forehead. Warm. Too warm.
“Why didn’t you send someone to tell me?”
She shrugs weakly. “Didn’t want to bother you.”
Bother me. As if her health could ever be an inconvenience. Fury lashes through me—at her for minimizing it, at myself for not noticing sooner.
“I’m calling Dr. Furman.”
Her eyes widen. “Ben, no, I don’t need a doctor?—”
“You do,” I say flatly, and stand to stride from the room, hell-bent on making sure she’s safe and healthy.
Dr. Furman arrives within the hour, his bag in hand, his mouth a hard line. He’s been my physician for decades, his loyalty tested more than once. But loyalty isn’t the same as warmth.
He examines her in silence, methodical. Blood pressure. Pulse. Questions about her symptoms. Maddie answers softly, color returning to her cheeks as the minutes pass. I’ve had Sarah, one of the staff, bring her up a small dish of buttered noodles while we waited for his arrival.
Finally, Furman sets his stethoscope aside and asks, “When was your last period?”
Maddie glances at me, startled by the question. “Um. Seven weeks ago? Maybe eight. I… thought I’d just missed it because of stress.”
The room goes still.
Furman’s gaze flicks to me, sharp and assessing, before returning to her. “You’re pregnant.”
The words detonate.
Madeline inhales sharply, sitting up straighter, her hands fisting in the blanket. “What? But I haven’t even taken a test?—”
“You’re seven weeks along, by your count. We’ll run a test to confirm, but I don’t see reason to doubt it. All the symptoms line up, and I can only assume, as you’re newly married…”
There’s no judgement in his statement, but the implication is clear: what do normal newlyweds spend much of their time doing?
Pregnant.
The word reverberates in my skull, echoing against old ghosts and apparently unfounded fear—she’s not sick the wayGeorgiana was sick, with that illness that snuck into our lives. No—this is something different.
Something that will change my life,ourlives, and the circumstances of this situation I got us into.
I go cold.
Furman continues, voice clipped. “You’ll need proper vitamins, reduced stress, regular monitoring. I’ll make arrangements.” His eyes cut to me again, hard as flint. “And you’ll need support. Real support. She needs someone to check on her regularly, Benedict, and whether it’s you or someone else, I expect it to be done.”
The accusation is subtle, but I hear it. The past, dragged into the room like a corpse.
My jaw tightens. “That’s enough, Doctor.”
He doesn’t flinch. “See that it is.”
He gathers his bag, gives Maddie a warmer look—gentle, reassuring—and leaves.
The silence is heavy, and I swear I’m not escaping it when I follow Furman out into the hall.
