Chapter 3 - The Second Ledger
Dr. Mercer didn't smile, but her professional composure cracked just enough to reveal a flicker of deep sympathy. She didn't leave the room; instead, she stepped closer to the examination table, resting her hand on the edge of the steel tray.
"Mr. and Mrs. Cross, I need you to listen to me very carefully," Dr. Mercer said, her tone shifting from clinical to urgent.
Alina blinked, her throat tight. "Is... is there something wrong with the baby? Is it ectopic? Is the hormone level too low?"
"No," Dr. Mercer said, holding up a hand to calm her. "Your hCG levels aren't low, Alina. In fact, they are exceptionally high. So high that when I saw the initial draw, I ordered an immediate follow-up transvaginal ultrasound to check for molar tissue or complications."
Dorian’s head snapped toward the doctor. His dark eyes narrowed into slits of pure focus. "Get to the point, Elaine."
Dr. Mercer turned the tablet screen around so the grayscale imaging data faced them. She tapped a finger against two distinct, shadowy clusters glowing softly on the monitor.
"Not baby," Dr. Mercer said softly. "Babies."
Alina stared at the screen. The small, gray blurs seemed to pulse with a faint, impossible rhythm.
"Twins?" Alina breathed, the word tasting unreal on her tongue.
"Twins," Dr. Mercer confirmed. "Dichorionic, diamniotic. Two separate sacs, two heartbeats. Everything looks remarkably healthy, despite your exhaustion."
The most feared man in Chicago—a man who had survived three assassination attempts, a federal grand jury, and a corporate war that had left half the city's docks burning—went completely, terrifyingly pale.
Dorian stared at the monitor. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. The heavy, monolithic aura of control that always surrounded him seemed to dissolve, leaving behind something raw, exposed, and profoundly shaken.
He slowly turned his head to look at Alina.
For the first time in six months, the impenetrable wall of ice in his dark eyes cracked wide open, revealing a flood of raw, unadulterated terror and wonder. He looked at her stomach, then up at her face, as if seeing her for the first time in a decade.
He took a step forward, his hand rising instinctively as if he wanted to touch her, to verify that she and the two tiny heartbeats on the screen were real.
Then, his hand froze mid-air.
Dorian’s expression hardened back into stone, but the tremor in his fingers betrayed him. He pulled his hand back, sliding it slowly into his pocket, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched.
He looked away from the monitor, staring down at the floor for three agonizing seconds.
When he finally spoke, his voice was a low, rasping whisper that sent a freezing chill straight down Alina’s spine, terrifying her far more than the revelation of the pregnancy itself.
"Eleven weeks..." Dorian murmured, his gaze shifting slowly toward the heavy oak door that led out to the corridor.
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He didn't look at Alina. He looked like a man standing on the edge of a precipice, staring down into an abyss he had built with his own hands.
"Then I filed for divorce just in time."
