CHAPTER 154: EMBRACING NEW LIFE

AIDEN — POV

The waiting room they led us to was far too quiet.

Sterile.

Bright.

Alexia sat curled in the chair beside me, wrapped in a blanket, eyes glued to the tiled floor like it held all the answers she was afraid of. Her fingers had stopped trembling—but only because she kept them pressed into her lap, clenched like she was bracing herself for impact.

I couldn’t stop watching her.

Couldn’t stop hearing the nurse’s words echoing in my skull.

"Could she be pregnant?"

And for the first time in... God, maybe ever, I wasn’t sure if I was more afraid of yes or no.

"I didn’t know," Alexia said suddenly, voice so faint it was almost inaudible. "I thought it was stress... I haven’t been eating, and I’ve been so sick in the mornings, but I didn’t think..."

Her voice trailed off. She shook her head.

"I’m sorry."

"Stop apologizing," I muttered. "This isn’t—Alexia, none of this is your fault."

She looked at me then, truly looked—like she couldn’t believe I was being gentle.

I almost flinched from the guilt.

A nurse came in with a gentle knock.

"Miss Alexia? Would you come with me, please?"

Alexia looked frozen.

I stood up. "I’ll go with her."

The nurse gave me a small, neutral smile. "She’ll only be a minute. Then the doctor will speak with you both together."

Alexia rose slowly, casting one last unsure glance at me before following the nurse out.

The moment the door shut behind them, I sat again, my hands rubbing down my face.

Pregnant.

Pregnant.

My heart pounded in uneven beats.

And if she was...?

What then?

Would she leave?

Would I let her?

Could I ever forgive myself if she did?

She returned ten minutes later, silent, pale. I stood instinctively. She didn’t speak, just sank into the chair and leaned her shoulder against mine. I wrapped an arm around her. She didn’t resist.

A few minutes passed.

Then the doctor came in.

Middle-aged. Calm face. Clipboard in hand.

"Mr. and Ms. Timberlake," he said. "The results are back."

Alexia’s breath hitched audibly beside me.

I gripped her hand.

The doctor glanced down at the chart and then back up. "Congratulations. You’re about two weeks along."

I heard it.

But it didn’t register.

Not fully.

Alexia was perfectly still.

No sound.

No words.

No movement.

Like she’d turned to glass.

I turned to her and saw the tears welling. Her bottom lip trembled. She shook her head like she didn’t believe it.

"No, I—I can’t—I didn’t—"

I caught her face in my hands. "Alexia."

She blinked rapidly. "I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t trying to trap you, I swear. I never even thought—I just—"

"Stop." My voice cracked. "Please, don’t say that. Don’t ever say that again."

She swallowed hard, blinking up at me with terrified eyes. "You’re angry."

"No," I breathed. "I’m... terrified. I don’t know what I’m doing. But I’m not angry."

Tears spilled down her cheeks now. "You should be."

"I’ve been angry for too long." I reached out, brushing her damp hair behind her ear. "I missed everything because I was angry. I missed you."

She clutched my shirt like it was the only thing anchoring her. "I’m so scared, Aiden."

I leaned forward, pressing my forehead to hers.

"So am I."

The doctor cleared his throat gently, excusing himself.

We stayed frozen there.

Her fingers tangled in my shirt.

My arms wrapped around her like she might

Alexia’s fingers slipped from mine. She wrapped her arms around herself, her voice a whisper.

"I didn’t know..."

I nodded slowly.

I couldn’t speak either.

She looked so lost. So scared. Like a child again—haunted by memories of pain and control and choices stripped away. My throat tightened painfully.

And then she did something I hadn’t expected.

She laughed.

It was soft. Broken. Bitter.

"I don’t even deserve this," she whispered, eyes flooding again. "I don’t deserve anything pure. Not after what I did to you... and now this..."

I moved without thinking.

Kneeled in front of her.

Took her cold hands into mine and pressed them to my lips.

"Stop," I said, voice cracked with emotion. "Please, just stop."

She looked down at me like she didn’t recognize me anymore.

And maybe she didn’t.

Because I wasn’t the man who’d hurt her. Not anymore. Not in this moment.

"I spent so long hating you," I whispered, forehead resting against her fingers. "So long punishing you—for something I thought you did with intent. And I never once stopped to see how broken you already were. I never gave you a chance to show me the truth."

Her breath hitched.

Tears spilled down her cheeks silently.

"I didn’t want a child," I admitted, because I couldn’t lie to her—not anymore. "I never thought I’d be capable of protecting something that innocent."

A pause.

"But if it’s with you... if it’s you—then maybe I can try."

She gasped then, sharp and strangled, and I looked up.

Alexia was staring at me like I’d ripped open her soul.

"You don’t hate me?" she whispered.

I reached up and cupped her cheek.

"No," I said. "Not anymore."

Her face crumpled.

She leaned forward and threw her arms around my neck, sobbing against me. Not with relief. Not yet.

With guilt. With fear. With the crushing weight of her past and all the things she thought she didn’t deserve.

I held her through it.

As long as she needed.

For once, I didn’t pull away.

And I wouldn’t.

Not again.

********

She was asleep on the couch.

Curled beneath the thick throw blanket like a trembling animal, her lashes dark against her pale skin, her breaths shallow. Her hand still rested over her stomach, as if she was trying to protect something not yet there.

I stood in the doorway watching her, unsure what to do with the weight in my chest.

It was late.

The house was dim and quiet—too quiet for the thoughts screaming in my head.

I turned away from her, moved into the kitchen like a ghost. The lights buzzed when I flicked them on. I stared blankly at the empty stovetop. I had cooked for her this morning, trying—just trying—to be kind.

She had thrown it all up.

At the time, I thought it was me. My cooking. My penance rejected.

But it wasn’t me.

It was our child.

The word still felt foreign. Sharp-edged and delicate. Like holding glass in bare hands.

I sat at the table, elbows on the wood, head bowed between my palms.

I didn’t know how to be a father.

Hell, I didn’t even know how to be a decent person. Not to her. Not to anyone.

What kind of father starts a family out of punishment?

What kind of man drives the mother of his child to the edge of despair?

I cursed under my breath.

My mind flashed with images.

A small hand.

A laugh.

Eyes that might look like hers—big, wounded, soft.

Or mine. Cold. Calculating. Dangerous.

I pressed my fist to my mouth, biting the edge of my knuckle. My throat burned. I had never cried for anything in my life. But this—this was different.

This wasn’t vengeance.

This was life.

And she was giving it to me, even if she never meant to.

Even if she thought she didn’t deserve it.

I knew that feeling.

But didn’t we both deserve something better now?

My chair scraped back suddenly.

I walked into the living room quietly. She stirred at the sound, lashes fluttering open.

"Aiden...?"

"Just me," I murmured. "Didn’t mean to wake you."

She sat up slowly, blanket falling from her shoulders. Her eyes were red-rimmed but wary. Always so wary.

"I thought..." she looked down at her hands. "I thought maybe it was a dream."

I crossed to her and crouched down in front of the couch, just like I had in the hospital.

"Not a dream," I said softly.

She looked at me.

And I didn’t let myself look away this time.

"I’ve never been afraid of anything in my life, Alexia," I said. "But right now, I am."

Her breath caught.

"I don’t know how to do this," I admitted. "But I want to try. I want to learn how to try. For you. For..." I glanced at her stomach, then back up. "For both of you."

Tears pooled in her eyes again.

"You mean that?"

I reached out, took her trembling hand, and pressed it to my chest.

"Feel that?" I asked, voice rough. "It’s real. I’m scared. But I’m here."

She stared at me for a long moment.

Then, slowly, her arms wrapped around my neck again. She didn’t sob this time.

She just held me.

And for once, I didn’t think about what we’d done to each other. I thought about what we might still become.

Together.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough to begin again.