Chapter 3

The nausea followed Luna all the way home.

By the time the chauffeur eased the Bentley into the Bennett private garage, the metallic taste in her mouth had spread to the back of her throat. She pressed her knuckles against her lips, willing the impulse to pass.

“Madam, should I call the family doctor?” the driver asked as he came around to open her door. He was an older man, had watched her enter this house as a shy bride. His eyes held a concern that made Luna feel strangely exposed.

“I’m fine, Colin.” She forced a smile and took his hand to steady herself. “Maybe the hospital smell got to me.”

Colin hesitated. “It’s just… when my wife was pregnant, she looked exactly like you do now.”

The word pregnant slammed into her chest like a physical blow.

Her fingers tightened on the leather handle of her handbag. “Don’t talk nonsense,” she said lightly, almost too quickly. “You know I—”

You know I can’t.

The rest of the sentence tangled in her throat. She pulled her hand back, gathering her coat around her as if it could hide the sudden tremor in her body.

Inside the mansion, the usual quiet wealth wrapped around her: the marble foyer, the chandelier dripping crystals, the faint scent of lilies from the arrangements Martha’s people changed daily. It had always comforted her. Today it felt like an audience.

She made it up to the master bedroom before the next wave of nausea hit.

Doubling over the sink, she retched until her eyes burned, but nothing came up. Just bitter saliva and gasps of air. When it finally subsided, she rinsed her mouth, gripping the cool edge of the marble counter.

Pregnant.

Colin’s offhand guess wouldn’t stop echoing. It was ridiculous. Cruel, even. She had sat in fertility clinics until her veins were pin-cushions, swallowed hormones until her moods became stranger to herself. Every month, she had watched a single red drop on white become a verdict.

Her gaze drifted to the cabinet under the sink.

For a long time, she just stared. Her heart beat an uneven rhythm against her ribs. Then, almost against her own will, she crouched down and opened it.

Buried behind extra towels and an unopened box of expensive bath oils, a small white box lay on its side, corner crumpled. A forgotten pharmacy bag still clung to it.

Luna froze.

She remembered now—Martha’s last birthday, over a year ago. When her period came early that month, she had bought the test on the way home, hiding it before the party started. She had never used it. The night had been full of expensive wine and pointed toasts about “the joy of grandchildren,” and when she’d finally staggered back to the bathroom, she hadn’t had the courage.

Her fingers shook as she picked it up, paper crackling in the too-quiet room.

“Just to rule it out,” she whispered to her reflection. Her own eyes looked wild, too bright. “Just to prove Colin wrong.”

In the locked bathroom, time congealed around the thin white stick resting on the counter. Luna sat on the closed toilet lid, palms flat on her knees, staring at the blank window where a result should appear.

“Three minutes,” she murmured to herself. “That’s all.”

Three minutes stretched into a lifetime.

Her mind dragged her backward. To the first year of her marriage, when every month she bought tests with shy excitement. To the second year, when each single line felt like a personal failure. To the third, when Martha had stopped pretending.

“You’re young,” her mother-in-law had said, voice smooth but eyes sharp as scalpels. “Medicine is so advanced now. The Bennett family cannot end in Ethan’s generation. You understand, don’t you, Luna?”

She had nodded, throat tight. She understood all too well.

“Madam.” Martha’s voice echoed in her head, from that awful Sunday brunch. “If it really doesn’t work, there are… options. Surrogacy. Adoption. But blood is blood. The Bennett name must have an heir.”

Not we. Not our family. The Bennett name.

Her hand moved before she realized it, dragging the stick closer.

Two lines.

The faint second line brightened as she watched, bleeding red into existence like a slow sunrise.

Luna did not breathe. Her ears filled with rushing blood. For a moment, the world narrowed to that small piece of plastic and the undeniable mark upon it.

“No,” she mouthed, because she didn’t dare say yes out loud. “No, that can’t be…”

Her vision blurred.

The first tear fell onto the countertop. Then another. Within seconds, she was sobbing soundlessly, one hand clamped over her mouth to muffle the sounds, the other clutching the test so tightly her knuckles blanched.

It hurt.

The sudden, fierce joy was painful. It cut through years of numbness like glass. Every negative result she’d ever had seemed to shatter at once, pieces falling away to reveal this impossible, fragile hope beneath.

“Please,” she whispered, not sure who she was speaking to. God. Fate. Her own body. “Please don’t be a joke. Don’t take this away from me.”

Her phone buzzed on the sink, jolting her back. She scrubbed at her eyes and glanced at the screen.

Martha.

Luna’s thumb hovered over Decline. She pictured her mother-in-law’s carefully painted lips, the way they thinned whenever someone mentioned grandchildren and Luna in the same breath.

She let it ring out.

Instead, she called the hospital.

“I need a blood test,” she told the receptionist. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears—thin but threaded with steel. “And an early ultrasound, if possible. Today.”

“Name?”

“Luna Bennett.”

There was a pause on the other end, the kind reserved for people whose last names moved schedules. “We’ll fit you in, Mrs. Bennett. Fifteen minutes.”

For the first time in years, the Bennett name did not feel like a weight around her neck. It felt like a key.

—

The hospital’s maternity wing was a different world from the sterile corridors where she’d spotted Ethan and Chloe that morning. Here, the air buzzed with quiet anticipation: muted laughter, the squeak of nurses’ shoes, the faint echo of a newborn’s cry.

Luna sat on the examination bed, fingers twisted in the hem of the disposable gown. The gel on her abdomen was cold, the room dim except for the glow of the ultrasound machine.

“Relax your muscles, Mrs. Bennett,” the doctor said gently, moving the probe. “I have your file here… You’ve done several hormone treatment cycles?”

“Yes.” Luna’s voice was small. “They didn’t work.”

The doctor hummed sympathetically. “Sometimes the body surprises us despite statistics.”

The screen flickered. A dark, tiny oval appeared amidst the grainy gray.

“There,” the doctor said, breaking into a smile. She pointed. “That little black dot? That’s your gestational sac. Very early, likely five weeks. We’ll confirm with the blood test, but congratulations, Mrs. Bennett. You’re pregnant.”

The word pregnant, spoken by a professional this time, detached from superstition and wishful thinking, sunk in differently.

Luna stared at the small speck on the screen as if she could will it larger by pure wanting.

“That’s… mine?” she whispered.

“It’s yours,” the doctor said. “But.” Her tone sobered. “Your uterine lining is thin, and I see signs of previous hormonal overstimulation. You’re at higher risk for miscarriage. You need rest, careful nutrition, minimal stress. No overwork, no emotional trauma if you can help it.”

Luna let out a short, humorless laugh. “Can anyone control emotional trauma?”

“You can ask for support from your family,” the doctor replied. “At this stage, your husband’s care will be very important. You must not carry everything alone.”

Husband.

For a second, the memory of Ethan’s back in the hospital corridor—broad, familiar, bent slightly toward Chloe—flashed before her eyes.

She shoved it away.

“This is our miracle,” she murmured instead, touching the flat of her stomach through the thin gown. “He’ll be happy. He has to be.”

The doctor printed a small black-and-white picture and handed it to her. Luna took it with both hands, as reverently as if receiving a religious relic.

On the way out, the nurse pressed a pamphlet into her palm. “Early Pregnancy Guidelines,” the title read. In bold letters underneath: Avoid strong emotions.

She laughed again, softer this time. “If only it were that simple.”

—

Back at the mansion, the late afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, painting long shadows across the parquet floors. Martha’s voice drifted faintly from the salon, discussing charity galas with some society wife.

Luna bypassed the open doors, B-scan photo clutched to her chest like contraband. She hurried upstairs, heart pounding in a rhythm that matched the echo of the doctor’s words—high risk, rest, support.

In her dressing room, she opened her laptop and typed with shaking hands: how to tell your husband you’re pregnant.

Pages flooded the screen: surprise dinners, decorated rooms, cakes with hidden messages, tiny shoes in gift boxes.

Her cursor stopped on a picture of a velvet box containing a folded ultrasound photo and a pair of blue knitted booties.

Something in her chest squeezed.

She didn’t know if it would be a boy or girl. She didn’t care. But the tenderness of those tiny socks, the promise they held, made her throat tighten.

She ordered a similar pair from a same-day boutique delivery. When they arrived in carefully tissue-wrapped perfection, she opened the Bennett family’s gift cabinet, searching.

At the back, she found a small, unused black velvet ring box, left over from some luxury jeweler’s delivery. She cleaned it, lined it with fresh tissue, then carefully placed the booties inside.

Finally, with almost ceremonial care, she slid the ultrasound photo beneath them.

On the lid, she tied a slender silver ribbon. Her fingers felt steadier with each loop, each knot. This, at least, she could control. This, she could make beautiful.

“You’ll like it,” she told the box softly, absurdly addressing Ethan through the gift. “You always said you wanted your first child’s story to be… special.”

She tucked the box into the top drawer of her bedside table and closed it gently.

The house grew darker. Hours slipped by. She sat on the bed, one hand absently tracing circles over her abdomen, listening for the sound of Ethan’s car in the driveway.

He arrived past ten.

The engine noise, the brief flare of headlights against the curtains, the muffled slam of the front door—they were all familiar, part of the routine she’d taught herself to accept. Tonight, each sound sent a jolt through her.

She smoothed her hair, checked her face in the mirror. Her eyes were still a little swollen, but there was a glow beneath the redness she couldn’t hide.

He pushed open the bedroom door with his usual restrained impatience, loosening his tie. The sharp scent of hospital disinfectant clung to his clothes, laced with something sweeter—faint perfume.

Chloe’s.

Luna’s fingers clenched in her skirt before she forced them to relax.

“You’re late,” she said, standing. The words came out more accusing than she intended.

Ethan barely glanced at her. “Emergency meetings,” he muttered, shrugging off his jacket. “Hospital board.”

“You smell like the wards,” she said, trying for lightness and failing. “Were you… in the maternity wing?”

His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. “I go where I’m needed.”

Her heart stuttered, but she bit down on the questions clawing at her throat. Not now. Not today.

“Ethan, I—”

“Not tonight, Luna.” He exhaled, rubbing his forehead. For the first time, she noticed the deepening lines at his temples, the tired slump to his mouth. “I’m exhausted. I don’t want to talk.”

The words hit her harder than he could have known. The doctor’s voice echoed: Your husband’s care will be very important. You must not carry everything alone.

She glanced at the bedside table drawer. Inside, the velvet box waited, a tiny universe of hope.

Her hand lifted toward it, then dropped.

“Alright,” she said quietly. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He grunted in response, already heading to the shower.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Luna stood for a moment in the middle of the room, feeling the swell and ebb of her own resolve. The silence pressed against her ears, broken only by the distant rush of water.

Slowly, she crossed to the bed and sat down. She opened the drawer just enough to slide her fingers inside and touch the smooth velvet lid.

“Tomorrow, then,” she whispered to herself. “Tomorrow, everything will change.”

Later, when Ethan emerged and collapsed on his side of the bed without another word, she lay awake beside him, eyes on the ceiling. One hand rested over the flat plane of her abdomen, as if she could shield the new life within from the chill in the room.

“Daddy will know tomorrow,” she murmured into the darkness, thumb stroking faint circles over her stomach. “He’ll be happy. He’ll protect us. He has to.”

She did not see Ethan, restless, slip from the bed an hour later.

On the balcony outside the master bedroom, the night air carried the city’s distant hum. Ethan leaned against the railing, phone glowing in his palm, features lit in cold blue.

His fingers flew over the screen, the message forming with practiced ease.

Tomorrow. Are you free in the morning? I’ll go with you to your prenatal check-up.

He hovered a second, then added:

I don’t want you to go alone, Chloe.

His thumb hit send.

Inside, just beyond the glass, Luna’s sleeping form was a pale outline in the dark, one hand still protectively curved over the child he did not yet know existed.

The phone buzzed almost immediately in his hand.

The name Chloe lit up the screen.