Chapter 144
Ivan
Seven months later.
Next time—if there is ever a next time, which I really, truly hope there isn't—I will be unconscious.
Because being awake while a group of highly trained strangers slice open your stomach and rummage around inside you?
That's bodyhorror. That's some full-on horror movie stuff.
The bright surgical lights, the smell of antiseptic, the clinking of instruments—it's burned into my brain. I thought I was mentally prepared.
I wasn't.
The blood. So much blood.
And then—oh, it gets worse—one of the doctors shoved their hand inside me like I was a claw machine at an arcade. Except instead of a stuffed toy, they pulled out a screaming, wrinkly, squirming baby.
Meanwhile, my big, scary alpha billionaire husband?
He fainted at the first slice. The scalpel hadn't even fully touched skin. Down he went. Out cold.
He came to briefly just in time to watch them lift the baby out of me… and then he was gone again.
Fainted twice. I would laugh if I wasn't paralyzed on an operating table watching my own insides become a science project.
Now, in the dim hospital room, I gingerly turn my head to the side. My incision aches with the kind of pain that makes you want to cry and laugh at the same time. Zander is in the chair next to me, finally conscious, cradling our daughter with a look of reverence like she's the crown jewels.
Yes. Daughter.
I have a daughter.
And she's ugly.
Like, objectively. Don't lie to me.
Everyone keeps trying to convince me she's pretty—liars. That's a rat. A wrinkly, hairless, angry little alien rat.
I love said rat already.
But let's be honest: my girl is ugly.
Surely this is a temporary thing, right? I'm attractive, her father is too. Genetics should do its job eventually. Worst-case scenario, plastic surgery should be fully perfected by the time she's grown. I'll start a savings account.
"Don't look at her like that," Zander says without even glancing at me, as if sensing my thoughts.
"But—" I start.
"She's perfect," he whispers, voice full of awe.
"She's hideous," I croak, and it hurts to laugh but I do anyway. "An ugly, wrinkly, bald rat."
Zander chuckles, the sound low and full of so much love it makes my chest ache.
"She's ours," he says simply, brushing a fingertip over her tiny fist.
"That makes her the most beautiful thing in the world."
I roll my eyes dramatically. "You're so biased."
I try to sit up instead, and my stomach immediately reminds me that I was sliced open like a Thanksgiving turkey.
I wince. "Ow."
"Stay," Zander says firmly. "You're still healing."
Then he coos at our daughter. Full-on baby talk.
Clearly I've been replaced.
"Unbelievable," I pout. "I almost die, produce an entire human being with my body, and you're looking at her like she hung the moon. I hung the moon. Me."
Zander finally looks at me and smiles. The tired kind of smile that still makes me melt. "You know you'll always be number one."
Zander finally looks at me and smiles. The tired kind of smile that still makes me melt.
"You know you'll always be number one."
I roll my eyes, but my chest warms. I can't believe I actually did it. I produced a whole human being.
It feels weird. Terrifying. And…kind of magical.
*
Zander only allows visitors after two weeks. By then I can actually stand without feeling like my organs will fall out. Mason and Harry come first. They're disgustingly in love now—apparently made it official while I was in the hospital.
Also, Dorian? Bankrupt. Word is he keeps begging for investors and getting laughed out of meetings while his projects get stolen out from under him.
Ha! Deserved!
I snicker. Serves the bastard right. When I'm fully healed, I'll make a personal trip to kick him while he's down.
Then something suspicious happens.
Zander's "family" shows up. They come in with flowers and cameras, taking pictures—not of my ugly little girl, mind you, but with me. Like I'm some celebrity photo-op. And they call me "dearIvan" like we've been best friends this whole time. Suspicious.
Highly suspicious.
I watch them leave, and as soon as the door clicks shut, I turn to Zander. He's bottle-feeding our daughter like the picture of fatherly devotion. I narrow my eyes.
"Who are they?" I ask flatly.
"Who?" He has the nerve to look genuinely confused.
"Your uncles and aunts. The ones who just gave their 'blessings.'"
"You just said it. My family," he replies innocently.
"Don't bullshit me. Where are the real ones?" I press.
He chuckles, and it's the kind of chuckle that makes my stomach clench—half sexy, half terrifying.
"They just had a change of heart. Realized my love for you. Decided to accept our relationship."
"Uh-huh." I deadpan. "Are they dead?"
He gasps dramatically. "Do you really think I'm capable of something like that?"
I raise an eyebrow. Yes.
He finally smirks and says casually, "They're reflecting. In multiple parts of the world. Traveling. Expanding their horizons."
"You know what they say—if your family is shit, change it."
"No one says that," I deadpan.
"Oh, well. They should," he replies, unbothered as he adjusts our daughter in his arms, going back to cooing at our wrinkly daughter.
I wonder where the real Vales are, but I'm not that curious.