“One week,” he muttered. “One week and you’re Mrs Voss. Then everyone will know you’re mine.”
“I don’t care what you call me,” I huffed. “Let’s just get this done so I can pee before I wet myself.”
The problem was, you were supposed to hydrate for a week to enable a clear picture.
I’d been given a four-hour window.
I made quick work of removing my leggings, and when I was ready, Silas was already there, pulling the paper sheet over me like I couldn’t be trusted to preserve my own dignity.
The poor technician kept glancing at him, nervously explaining what he was doing and why. Like Silas wouldn’t leap across the room if he didn’t narrate every micro-movement.
But then…
There it was.
Our tiny baby. Curled inside its amniotic sac, feeding off the yolk sac. Medically, it was called an embryo, but as we stared at the flickering screen, everything else disappeared.
It was love at first sight.
Once all the checks were done and the technician handed over our printed images, I bolted for the bathroom—ready to finally relieve the bladder I’d nearly ruptured.
When I returned, Silas was waiting outside, leaning against the wall with the kind of smile I’d only seen a handful of times.
“You’re pregnant,” he beamed.
“I told you that yesterday,” I grumbled, though I took his outstretched hand anyway.
Everly Voss.
Baby Voss.
Silas Voss.
The names had a nice ring to them.
The journey home was quiet, but Silas held me close, his palm resting protectively on my stomach.
He didn’t need to say a word. That one touch said everything.
And I knew—our tiny spark of life would bind us forever.
Chapter 17
Silas
At thirty-two, I married Eris. Eleven years later, I was marrying her daughter.
I’d never offered Everly more than a few smiles and surface-level conversation. Nothing meaningful. Nothing lasting. My hand stilled on my tie as the memories stirred.
No—around the age of fourteen or fifteen, she vanished. Eris had planned trips away during school breaks, always brushing off questions with something about Everly being better off at school, or with friends, or just needing “space to grow.” I hadn’t questioned it. She was a teenager. Moody. Distant. I figured that was normal.
But the truth? Everly stopped coming home.
And I didn’t notice until she reappeared.
Seeing our child last week—our child—resting inside her womb flipped a switch in me. It brought the past back in stark, painful clarity. But it also forced me to look ahead.
I couldn’t rewrite history.
