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CHAPTER 25
Isabella
Today is my doctor’s appointment. I feel Damien’s hand entwined with mine as we exit the house, and the familiar weight of his touch grounds me. I glance at the line of vehicles, one SUV stationed in front and one trailing behind us. There are more bodyguards than usual flanking us with their sharp eyes, scanning for any potential threats.
I can’t help but feel a swell of gratitude for the extra precautions Damien insists on. It’s evidence of his unyielding resolve to protect our growing family. The ride to the hospital passes in a blur, with my mind preoccupied with the flutter of nerves and excitement at the thought of my first checkup.
We pull up to a secluded back entrance and quickly disembark. The guards are swift, ushering us inside with practiced efficiency. Inside the hospital, the halls are silent, eerily devoid of the usual hustle and bustle, and I can’t hide my bewilderment.
“Where is everyone?” I ask, seeking Damien’s eyes for answers.
“I had it closed to outsiders today. Everyone around may know not to mess with me, but I’m not taking any chances.” His words ripple through me, a mix of reassurance and a stark reminder of the world we inhabit, where caution is not a luxury but a necessity.
The waiting room is a sterile void. I fidget in the stiff chair with my hands clasping and unclasping in my lap. My heart taps a rapid rhythm against my chest like an unsettling drumbeat that echoes my anxiety. The life growing inside me feels both wondrous and terrifying. Damien's hand, warm and reassuring, finds mine, and I cling to it like a lifeline.
His thumb strokes the back of my hand, a simple gesture that helps to anchor me against the surge of my racing thoughts. He's been wonderful since we discovered a baby was on its way. His excitement is a kind of balm to my own whirlwind of emotions. With him by my side, I feel strong enough to brace the tidal waves of my impending motherhood.
Damien leans in closer, his voice a soft murmur meant only for me. "Relax, love. It's going to be alright," he assures me with serene confidence that he seems to wear effortlessly, like his tailored suits.
I can't seem to echo his calm, and my words spill out in an anxious rush. "I can't, Damien. I just... can't.." The corners of my eyes prickle with the threat of tears.
“You can,” he says. “Don’t get lost in that pretty little head of yours.”
"Damien, what if something's wrong with the baby? What if—" I start.
"Isabella," his voice is a gentle interruption, a soothing melody against the clamor of my fears. "Relax, baby. Stressing isn't good for either of you."
"But how can I? What if our baby isn't healthy? I've read about so many genetic disorders and the probabilities and the risks. It's all so overwhelming," I tell him.
He gives me a look, one that's meant to still the ocean storming inside of me. "Isabella, come on, you know you can't think like that. Our baby is going to be just fine."
"You can't promise that. There's cystic fibrosis, there's Down syndrome, what if—" I continue in a rush.
His lips meet mine in an effective seal against the torrent of my spiraling thoughts. When he pulls back, his eyes hold mine in a steady gaze. "We'll handle it together, whatever comes our way. But for now, everything is fine, my love."
A gentleman in the doctor's coat strides forward with an air of confidence trailing in his wake. "Mr. and Mrs. Blackhart," he greets with a bow of his head and kindness in his eyes. "It is nice to see you."
Damien's hand tightens over mine, and with a guiding nudge, he introduces the man before me. "Bella, this is Dr. Nigel, the family doctor," he says as if the title alone should offer some form of comfort.
I study Dr. Nigel's face, searching the lines that time has etched onto his features. It takes a mere moment for the recognition to set like concrete in my stomach. He is the same doctor who was there when Jackson died
My voice, when I find it, is barely a whisper. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Nigel."
The words feel brittle on my lips, tasting of a time when his presence shadowed loss, not the potential joy of life we're here to celebrate today. As I stand beside Damien, facing Dr. Nigel, memories cascade through my mind like a relentless current. It feels like another lifetime when I was tethered to Jackson, where days melted into a monochrome of fear and desolation. That marriage was a storm, unrelenting and cruel, leaving scars hidden beneath the surface, a stark contrast to the gentle touch of Damien’s hand in mine now.
Jackson’s shadow had loomed over me, a threatening specter that dictated my every move, every breath. I was a bird in a gilded cage, clipped wings wrapped in silk, with a silent scream lodged in my throat. My former life was a carefully constructed façade, a smile painted on to cover the bruises of my spirit and the dread that nestled in the pit of my stomach each night.
Damien, however, is the dawn after the darkest night. Where there was once control and fear, Damien offers freedom and security. He loves without stipulations or suffocating expectations. His love empowers me, bolsters me through my insecurities, and lends me strength in the face of my anxieties. Just his presence, solid and unwavering, erases the years of being diminished.
I know he has his own shadows, we all do, but together, it's as if we turn to face them as one. In Damien's embrace, I have found not only a partner but a co-author of a new chapter, one painted in hues of hope and shared dreams. A chapter where our baby will be born into a legacy of love, not fear.
“Please follow me,” Dr. Nigel says, bringing me back to the present.
As Dr. Nigel leads the way, the clinic's corridors seem to fold in on me, a maze that ends with an examination room. The doctor's coat whispers against the silent halls as he guides us, and I match my steps with Damien's, drawing courage from the rhythm of our synchronized strides.
We arrive at the room, and Dr. Nigel gives me a brief, professional nod. "Please disrobe from the waist down and lay on the table with the sheet covering you."
My cheeks flush at the commonplace request. I slip behind the paper-thin privacy curtain, shedding my clothes with fabric pooling at my feet like the discarded shells of my former fears. Once on the table, the sterile sheet crinkles beneath me, a flimsy barrier between my exposed skin and the table.
